The Birds They Put In Cages
by wonderwoundedhearers
Summary: Hunger Games AU. When Belle's name is called at the Reaping, she has a choice: accept her fate, or fight. District 8 has only ever had one victor in the entire history of the barbaric sport, and she knows her chances of winning are less than slim. But will Gold, her reclusive and enigmatic mentor, help or hinder? Let the 72nd Hunger Games commence! Lem/Lang. M/C.
1. The Birds They Put In Cages

**_The Birds They Put In Cages_**

**_- Chapter 1 -_**

* * *

_'Will the birds they put in cages,_

_ever ride upon the wind?_

_Will the children life outrages,_

_ever learn to love again?'_

_-Tina Arena & Garou_

* * *

**Author's note**: This story is inspired by wondertwinc's post on Tumblr, containing mega plot bunny material in the form of graphics for andachippedcup's Hunger Games AU prompted ficlet. This fic took me at least a month to write - _phew!_ - and is, now, finished. A new chapter will be uploaded once a week, every Friday, until complete, and should total approximately ten chapters. I really hope you enjoy this - please let me know if you do! - and will now leave it in your capable (and, may I say, beautiful) hands.

**Warning**: This story will contain a May-December relationship (not too big a gap,) blood and gore (in the arena,) sexual scenes, and some strong language. Basically, all the good stuff.

* * *

There's a moment – a harsh beat of her heart and a soft lull of noiselessness in the crowd outside the Justice Building of District 8 – when she thinks she's safe. She's eighteen, it's her last year, and she has never needed to put her name down for tesserae because she and her father can just about scrape by.

But the silence is broken, and her heart picks up its manic, sweat-inducing rhythm, and she knows that no one is truly safe at the Reaping. Everyone will have a moment of security – will think, '_it's not me_' – but it has to be someone.

And as the Capitol's representative for the district, Saph, pries open that small slip of paper in her hand, Belle has no idea that her world is about to be torn apart.

"_Clarabelle Rosebay!_"

Everyone in the crowd turns toward her, a chain reaction, in a ripple of noiseless wonder. Every girl has their minute of true relief, and now it is time for the boys to worry. The escort on the stage with claw-like, blue fingernails places the slip of paper on the table between the two glass balls of names, as if she hasn't just issued a death sentence. The mayor and his wife, seated behind Saph on the stage, hold their young daughter close between them. The district's single victor sits next to them, his dark-whisky eyes on Belle.

It's as if she's above them all, not in her own body, looking down at the eighteen-year-old brunette in the blue dress with relief and pity, like everyone else. But Belle soon plummets back to earth.

Saph's bright, laser-like eyes seek her out in the crowd from her high perch on the stage. The Capitol escort fixes her gaze on the only unmoving figure.

"Up here, girl."

The words come without malice, but they are unfeeling. Saph takes tributes from District 8 to the Capitol every year, and every year they do not come back. Belle can't blame her for not thinking much the district, one of the poorer in Panem. The woman's been stuck with them for years after a scandal with a victor from Four.

Belle's feet take her through the crowd, tripping on the pale cobbles here and there, the people barely parting to let her through. She wants to look for her father, maybe even Gaston, or her best friend, Red, but Saph's eyes draw her closer, persuading her to pull herself up onto the stage and face the large, Capitol cameras.

She doesn't know the boy who is called up by Saph after her, the one that tries so hard not to cry even though he must only be twelve from the look of him. Saph says his name is Reel.

There is hardly a noise echoed in the square as Belle turns to the boy at Saph's urging, taking his smaller hand in hers to shake. He squeezes her fingers in a crushing grip, his watery blue eyes fixed on the ground beneath wispy locks of auburn, smoke-like hair.

Belle knows there will be no truce between them, and they are ushered into the building.

The Peacekeeper at her elbow directs her through the unknown and uniform hallways, before shutting her in a small room. It is here that Belle has her moment of realisation.

Her knees shake, weak and useless, and she has to brace herself against the white, spartan wall in case she falls to the floor.

Her whole life has been about her father, her job in the factory, the books she manages to get her hands on from Granny's little trade shop, and... She's only picked up a knife to cook, so how will she be able to take a blade in-hand to kill someone?

She's watched the Hunger Games, seen all the plots and schemes to survive, to _win_, and even if the chances of a tribute from her district weren't as minimal as can be, she knows the people who can't kill don't become victors.

Her best chance is to hide in whatever godforsaken arena the Gamemakers have built and hope the other tributes die before she does.

Minutes pass and then the battered door, painted white but warped beneath from the abusive occupants before her, swings open. Heavy boots sound on the boards.

Belle glances up to see that it is a Peacekeeper, and behind his masked and guarded form is not her father, nor Gaston, but Red.

The girl pushes past the Peacekeeper, long black hair flying behind her head in a silken curtain as she dashes into Belle's arms.

"_Clara_." She is the only person to call her this. "Stay strong, alright? You can _do this_."

Belle pulls away from her misty-eyed friend, a hot tear coursing down her own cheek. She stares at her for a moment, unbothered by the Peacekeeper counting down their time together, and wonders how Red can sound so sure.

"How do you know?" Belle whispers, voice breaking, and she realises this is the first time she's spoken since she told her father to wear his blue shirt for the Reaping. "I don't think I can."

Red's big, blue eyes pin Belle down as her hands grip Belle's arms and _squeeze_. "You can do this because you're _smart_. So you haven't got instincts like mine – that doesn't matter! You're strong, and you _know _things, like poisonous plants and _making_ things. You're gonna survive, Clara. This isn't the end."

The Peacekeeper steps forward and wraps a hand around Red's shoulder, indicating their time is up as he pulls her back. Belle feels her heart rip in two, desperation suddenly clawing at her insides.

"Red, wait! No!"

The younger girl can only fight the Peacekeeper for so long, before he drags Red out of the room entirely, shutting the door with loud finality and leaving Belle to stand in the centre of the space, desolate, like a cold and distant moon with nothing to gravitate towards.

Her father doesn't appear in the allotted time, and Gaston, her father's favourite for the role of Belle's future husband, doesn't show his face either. No one else comes to the little white room.

And she is lost.

* * *

Saph is not a talker, as Belle finds out only too quickly after being wrangled from her little room by the Peacekeepers and marched the short distance to the train station. Reel has taken a seat in the lush, chrome carriage at the back, in the corner, staring out of the window as scenery goes by in a blur, and Saph is firmly fixed to the bar, downing a rather vile-looking concoction of murky grey.

Belle is the only one that watches the television screen across from her, repeating the day's events and who has been chosen from each of the districts.

As usual, the Careers are mesmerising. Districts 1, 2, and 4 have matching pairs, all solid and built and beautiful, even in their disgustingness. The boys from One and Two volunteer among many others, but the one from Four is chosen without anyone else calling out to take his place. His grin is wide and white. It's obvious Four's the one to watch, with his whole district knowing that the Reaping chose the right tribute to win for them.

She notes a name here and there – _Harp, Paige, Vanish, Grand_ – but she doesn't try to remember them. She'll know them all soon enough from the interviews, training, and then the arena itself. She feebly battles the cold and sickening dread rising inside her.

Belle glances up, looking over the plush, red velvet seat across from her, straight at Saph. The woman's taking her drink without ice.

Belle has so many questions, so many things that need answering, but the biggest query – the one right on the tip of her quivering tongue – walks through the door at the opposite end of the carriage at that moment, beyond the long, polished bar.

His cane doesn't make much noise on the thick, silvery carpet, and the golden handle atop the thin, black stick glints in the afternoon sunlight washing through the carriage from the long windows on either side. His black suit is unwrinkled, but his burgundy tie is loosened around his neck. He looks unruffled, as usual, but unreachable, as always. His shoulder-length, wavy, dark hair hangs in his eyes as he reaches past Saph for a glass and the whisky decanter. His lips stretch in a thin smile, the sunlight catching his single, gold canine.

"Taking it easy, eh, dearie?"

Saph's blonde head snaps toward Gold at his brogue-deepened query, but she says nothing, her long nails curling around the glass in her hand. He gives Saph another short look, before moving down the train and taking the seat directly opposite Belle, much to the latter's surprise.

He leans his cane to the side as he settles into his seat, looking at Belle with those dark eyes. They rake her half-pinned hair, her plain blue dress, before glancing down, under the table, to see her bare ankles and scuffed, black shoes.

In such close quarters, she has no choice but to return the favour, her eyes drinking in the few hard lines on his otherwise youthful face. He's not an incredibly handsome man, but Belle knows that it is his sharp tongue and fearsome reputation that detracts from his straight-edged nose and defined jaw-line. His voice – not that she's heard it often – seems more aged than his form, perhaps by drink or tobacco, but his accent is strange and old, from another time, possibly passed down through his family, not that she knows of them. He's always been alone.

When their eyes meet again, she sees he's smiling.

"Well," Gold says lowly. "_You_, we can work with."

Behind Gold, Reel's eyes snap to their table, narrowing at the obvious implication that he has nothing of worth. Belle has no idea what she has that he doesn't, but she's sure that it will soon be made clear.

She gives their district's only victor a tentative smile, and he returns it with a shrewd look.

"_Clarabelle_," he intones, her name falling from his lips cursively, as if he's shaping every loop and swirl with his tongue. "What a lovely name."

Belle swallows the lump that suddenly appears in her throat. "Thank you. My mother chose it."

"Mm, yes. And your father?"

Her skin washes with a chill, thinking of his disappearance after the Reaping. "He's already mourning me, I think."

Gold's eyes remain on Belle as he fills the crystal glass in front of him with a little of the amber liquid from the whisky decanter. Her father hates the stuff, says it reminds him of the rich in Panem and their expensive habits.

"No brothers, sisters? What about a..._beloved_?" His eyes sharpen their gaze on her, and Belle feels as if he's picking her apart inch-by-inch, only to put her back together again.

She thinks of Gaston, the hulking man her father wants her to marry. "There's no one."

"Good." Gold takes a long gulp from his glass, not even a notion of a wince present on his face. "Single, pretty – we can make this angle work."

Saph looks over from the bar with sudden interest, catching Belle's gaze above Gold's head. Her bright eyes narrow and her cobalt lip curls.

"We might get a good price, too, if Snow lets us," the escort says against the lip of her glass, and Gold's back instantly stiffens.

"Always thinking of the money, Sapphire," he says, gaze cast aside. "Let's try to keep it clean this year, hm?"

The woman turns from the rows of bottles on the bar and takes her leave, slipping through the door at the far end of the carriage without another word, a bottle of her poison of choice and a glass clinking together gently in her hand. Reel follows soon after, a distant look in his eye.

Though the size of the carriage seems to shrink a little now it is just the two of them, Belle finds she can still breathe. He hasn't stolen the very air from her lungs with his close proximity and interested gaze, though she does find herself more than curious about him. But then, she always has been.

Gold's lip curls in a sharp grin. "Alone already. So, talents. Tell me what you can do."

Belle does not feel intimidated by this man, but she is cautious. He's well-known in their district as a recluse with a silver tongue and a wicked smile. Her father always says he'll rob you sooner than look at you, and she knows why.

Because that's how Gold won his Games, by making deals and being stealthy in his thievery, by being _untrustworthy_ but having what everyone needed. He had stolen from other tributes, gotten some alone to make a trade, appearing as a friend, and hoarded from the Cornucopia. He had destroyed supplies, tracked people down to sabotage their camps, but, in the end, it hadn't been enough.

He'd had to kill a girl a few years younger than him. She had lost everything due to one of Gold's schemes, and had subsequently singled him out and tracked him down. It had been the two of them at the end, and she had been crazed and bloodthirsty. She'd lunged and managed to catch his leg with her knife as he threw himself out of her path. She had spilt his blood, and he had returned the favour.

Belle remembers the replay in a single flickering image: the young Gold, looking down at the girl, breathing heavily and clutching his leg, waiting for his ride out of the savannah-like arena.

"I'm smart," she begins unabashedly, after concluding that he'll most probably appreciate honesty and staring him straight in the eye. "I read a lot, and I know things. I'm good with my hands as well – I make lace in the factory – and I'm quick, light on my feet from running under the machines since I was small."

"A veritable _host_ of skills, then," Gold breathes, eyes dipping. "You might give the others a bit of a run for their money in the beginning, if you survive the bloodbath, but you'll need _sponsors_, dear. Are you willing to do what I tell you?"

Belle does not hesitate to agree. He gives her his infamously wicked smile.

"Good," he murmurs, finishing his glass and pushing it to one side, before lacing his fingers beneath his chin and leaning on them. "I don't offer my help often, and it's even rarer that I actually have someone worth mentoring. Let's make this work, shall we, Clarabelle?"

Belle watches as he stands, taking his cane firmly in-hand once more and turning to leave without another word. She stops him with outstretched fingers as he makes to pass by, and his eyes drop to rove the back of her slim hand as he pauses for her to speak.

"Please," she tells him, gaze and voice firm. "Call me Belle."

* * *

Belle jolts awake with a gasp, a dream she can't quite remember already just on the fringes of her conscious mind. Her ears pop.

The train is eerily quiet, the long windows blacked-out, and now there is no sunlight to illuminate her surroundings harsh, white lights have come on overhead in the ceiling, hurting her aching eyes.

She feels a dull pounding in her skull, and she grips the edge of the polished table as she rides it out. It is then, eyes pinched shut and mouth twisted in a slight grimace, that she is surprised by a sudden roar.

Eyes flying open, Belle's gaze is greeted by a thousand colourful faces through the now-clear windows of the carriage. The Capitol's skyscrapers and clean, white architecture act as a background to the citizens crowding the passing transport.

The train has slowed, enough for Belle's wide eyes to take in the strange fashion, the tall haircuts, and the bright and garish colours painting the people screaming and waving at _her_.

Even though the train she sits on bears more than one large and obvious '_8,_' stamped on every carriage, the people of the Capitol cheer for her as if she has just been crowned a victor.

A chant, rising from the crowd, cuts through the muffled – to Belle's ear – celebrations.

"_Tribute!_ _Tribute!_"

New screams rise, new people peer in as the train glides by, until Belle is once more enveloped by darkness, the windows shuttering blackly as the train enters another sort of tunnel.

Her ears ring with the sudden silence.

In the quiet and empty carriage, with an image of the screaming Capitol crowds still fixed in her mind's eye, Belle has never felt more alone.


	2. You Haven't Told Me Anything

_**The Birds They Put In Cages**_

– _**Chapter 2 –**_

* * *

'_You take a beautiful thing,_

_Pull off a wing, pull off a wing,_

_The safety pin,_

_They never shine quite as bright again...'_

–_Keane_

* * *

Their floor of the Training Centre is lush, furnished in all the latest faux-furs and fabrics – made mostly in District 8 – and the bathrooms are endless, filled with gadgets and gizmos meant to make even the grimiest and plainest of tributes Capitol-clean. The oval dining table is a loaded with tarts and treats, and the bar curling about one corner is well-stocked, much to Saph's obvious satisfaction.

Belle is shown to her room by a dark-skinned, sleek-haired Avox, who looks far too pretty to be anything other than a model. The girl lowers her gaze as Belle passes, shutting the door for her once Belle is inside.

Belle absently wonders what the girl did to deserve her punishment, but she knows that the Avox probably didn't do anything. But then, does anyone truly deserve to lose their voice?

She paces her room for a time, touching the pale yellow walls and digging her toes into the plush, white carpet, before she takes a shower in her capacious en-suite bathroom, confusing herself with all the buttons she can press and enjoying it at the same time.

Belle scrubs her skin with tufts of chartreuse foam, dispensed from a small machine inside the shower cubicle, enjoying the luxury of not having to use a bar of greying soap sparingly, like she does at home. She emerges smelling of apples, wraps herself in a large, bed sheet-size towel, and she isn't displeased with the results of the hair dryer, once she learns that she has to place her head _into_ the gleaming, dome-like machine.

Belle redresses in her blue frock, ignoring the half-open closet door and the clothes inside, and reacquaints herself with the rest of the eighth floor. She finds a sun room with large floor-to-ceiling windows across the farthest wall, though there is no view, only bright light and heat, designed, she thinks, to give a glow to the skin of the occupant of the room. One of the nearest rooms off of the open-plan living area is a games room, complete with a green, felt-topped table she's never seen the likes of before in her life, and a low, over-hanging, shaded lamp. There is also an entertainment room nearby, with an enormous television screen, and a short corridor with wide doors leading onto a balcony. The latter calls to her.

She takes her barefooted steps on the cold, white marble with slow precision, the entirety of the Capitol spread out before her over the fixed, glass balcony wall. She's seen renderings of the city before and those glimpses from the train, but they haven't quite captured the majesty of the high-reaching buildings and clean, bustling streets.

Each person is a multicoloured enigma, and each street is some new, foreign land to explore with her eyes. Belle sees dogs dressed like their human counterparts, dyed and coiffed to precision, and children running after their parents, emulating the adults' stances and mannerisms when their carers stop to talk to people they know in the street.

The shops are large and numerous, with more people than she's ever seen in one place in her district entering and exiting like the end of the world is nigh, shopping bags lined up and hanging off of their arms.

Belle's never been scared of heights – not beyond the reasonable, anyway – but it seems like such a very long way down into those streets, though she thinks this might just be in her mind. She's so far above them, so very tightly locked away, and it leaves her cold that beneath the colour and glamour, the people below are _human_. Human, just like her, but they let children die every year in the memory and name of some half-forgotten war that the districts lost.

In a flash, she scares herself by suddenly thinking how easy it would be to climb the glass partition and throw herself into the clean street below, staining the white with red and ending it all. But, even if she were behind that sudden and intrusive plot, she sees that a jump will be scuppered.

A soft glow, light and shimmering, encompasses the entire building for as far as she can see, so close she almost wants to touch it, and she can guess that the barrier will merely throw her back. She's read about force-fields somewhere, in a book with a red jacket and a bent spine.

A smile crosses her lips. Oh, she might not be able to kill anyone in the arena, but she can remember nearly every book she's ever read.

The soft sound of the doors opening behind her makes her head turn to see who it is. It's Saph.

The escort shuts the balcony doors behind her and gives Belle a long look, her clawed hands pressed to the glass doors as she leans back against them. There is the loudest and longest silence, the Capitol's daily noise fading into the background at the look in Saph's bright blue eyes, and then the woman speaks.

"Gold wants me to give you some pointers."

Belle's fingers tighten their grip on the glass wall as the escort pushes away from the doors and sidles up beside her. "What kind of pointers?"

"Well." Saph's blonde curls shift in a light breeze, and her blue lips present a smile. "You must know what spin we'll be using with you. He wants me to make you more..._seductive_."

Her heart pounds and her mouth goes a little dry. "I'm not stupid. I know what men want."

"_Good_," Saph practically purrs in her high and strange Capitol accent. "The better you are at it, the more sponsors you'll get, and the more sponsors you get–"

"The better my chance of winning," Belle finishes for her.

Saph's eyes attempt to pierce her. "And if you _win_, Clarabelle Rosebay, then...well, let's just say it's in _all _our best interests to _help_ you. You're a magnificent prize."

Belle has no idea what the escort means, but she's sure it can't be all that good from the look in Saph's eye. To take some of the heat off of her, she urges Saph to continue with her tutelage, and the woman is all too happy to help.

* * *

Saph is in a snit as she pushes Belle and Reel into the large elevator to take them down for the Opening Ceremony.

"Really!" She huffs. "So people couldn't stop volunteering and let that little girl go in Ten, does that mean we have to conform to _their _timetable?"

Belle stands silently by as Saph continues, venting about a young child in District 10 that no one wanted to see go. Belle can only imagine the chaos that the district caused to delay their tributes' arrival and, subsequently, preparations for the Opening Ceremony.

"Gold is furious, of course," Saph says just before the elevator doors open to reveal the man himself.

He's as finely dressed as ever, but there's an edge to his expression that screams danger. He is definitely unhappy about the day's events.

"Get her over to Russell and the team, _now_," he orders Saph, and his tone indicates he is not to be trifled with.

The escort submits instantly, pressing onward in her high heels and blue, ruffled dress, directing Belle and Reel to follow behind her. Belle does not turn her head to look back at Gold, but her eyes try to disobey. She can feel his gaze on her back.

Saph hurries her along, ushering them out of the building and into a waiting car. They are being transported to the Remake Centre, Saph tells her, and because of the delay the tributes had to be taken to the Training Centre early to ensure no further complications. President Snow, Saph goes on, brooks no disobedience from the districts. Belle wonders what the troublesome tribute's punishment might be.

The Remake Centre is a large building, very close to the Training Centre, and as the car goes by, turning to enter a guarded, underground level, citizens' heads turn and they try to get a good look at who's inside the dark vehicle.

Saph herds them once more through spartan hallways and crowds, ignoring other tributes and their gathered teams, leading Belle into a sterile-looking, mauve-tiled room off of the main atrium, before dragging Reel out to an opposite door and leading him through.

Belle barely has a moment to acquaint herself with the clicking machines and padded, reclining chair in the room before two men and a woman rush through the door, Saph hot on their heels.

Russell, Saph introduces him as, is a broad man with a curling, reddened moustache, and Belle can't tell whether it's the fashion in the Capitol or he's been given a bloody nose. The harried and semi-thunderous expression on Saph's face says that it could certainly be the latter.

Russell pokes and prods Belle, spinning her about and muttering something about his genius being quashed by "some sentimental little district." Belle takes immediate dislike to this man.

They press her into the fully-reclined chair, and the other man, Bowlby, with the high hair and hooked nose, and woman, Cherry, with the mocha skin and auburn curls, help Russell with all manner of tasks in silence as well as stage whispers, as if Belle is deaf to their sideways comments.

They pick at her hair ("nearly lovely,") her eyebrows ("good God,") her teeth ("she has them all at least,") her legs ("bit plump,") and even, shocking her into a gasp and reflexively grabbing Russell's roving hand, between her thighs.

His smile is wide and crooked as he removes his wrist from her grasp. "Just checking. We'll need to trim _that_ particular hedge."

The pain is not unbearable, but it is great. Luckily for Belle, she is used to pain from accidents in the factory, like a machine catching a stray lock of her hair, or pricking her aching fingers as she makes Panem's most expensive lace.

It is, however, humiliating, having to spread her legs and close her eyes as four people stare down at her most intimate place before ripping off her thatch of curls there in long, agonising strips.

They pluck and wax and brush and buff her into a frenzy, before rushing her off to Cherry's wardrobe. Reel meets Belle there with his own team of three colourful madmen, and then they are dressed in their district's trade.

Belle sends up thanks for being the district that makes _clothes_ and that Cherry and Reel's designer, Joy, have seen fit not to dress them up in anything truly ridiculous. They have, however, managed to throw something together that is fairly-sized on Reel, but tiny on Belle.

At first, she thinks they've given her the wrong costume, but as Russell fusses with the fine, almost _see-through_ dress, Belle realises that there was a reason for removing every single inch of hair on her body.

Reel is in a one-piece with cut-offs, the white fabric ribbed and tangled to look like thread, an oversized prop-needle nearly as tall as him attached to his back, and with his hair he truly looks like some lost and cast off ball of cotton. Belle, however, knows her costume is tighter than his, smoother over every curve, and her prop-needle is more askew so the slit up her leg looks more tasteful and artistic.

Bowlby fashions her hair into long, silken, and riotous curls, before swirling them up into a pretty bun and pushing two smaller knitting-like needles through it. The stylists douse the two tributes in glitter and bits of thread, before congratulating themselves and pushing Belle and Reel out of the room.

Reel's eyes meet hers, and what he wants to express is clear: he blames Belle for the less than masculine costume.

They're rushed through a few hallways, the team surrounding them, before they turn a corner that opens out on the courtyard-like ground level of the building. Other Tributes and stylists have already gathered around their waiting chariots, some of them bedecked in jewels, others covered in soot, and some tributes, she sees, have even more revealing costumes than Belle. She's suddenly incredibly thankful.

Russell grabs Belle's wrist in his thick-fingered hand and hurries her towards District 8's chariot.

"Hold on tight and _smile_," he tells her, before bodily hauling Reel up onto the chariot's platform and pushing Belle up after.

Belle gives him a half-hearted nod and turns to look for Saph. The escort is easily identifiable, even among the strange costumes and other Capitol citizens, and she's arguing with another escort who has bright yellow curls and thick, red lips. Saph spits something at the other woman, before turning on her heel and stalking back towards Belle and Reel.

The other escort stands on the same spot for a moment, almost stunned, before glowering at Saph's back and turning to her own tributes. The young girl she squeezes the shoulder of is dressed in cow-print and looks as if she's about to cry.

Saph breaks Belle from her musing, glaring up at her from beside their dark and glittering chariot. "Don't even think about feeling _anything_ for that little wretch. They've got an angle, too, and it's a mile wide. Just remember that."

Before Belle truly knows it, the stylists all begin to step away from their chariots and group together behind District 12's as the ceremony begins, District 1 pulling out of the doors opening ahead of them to the roar of the assembled crowd.

Reel says nothing as the chariots begin to move forward, following after each other, and Belle doesn't have the stomach to make peace. They'll both be trying to out-survive the other soon enough, so why shouldn't they start now?

It's such a shame, she thinks, that she can be so well-known in her district for being sunny and polite – albeit a dreamer – but here, in the Games, she is just another tribute, another girl, and more competition.

When their chariot pulls through the grand doors, the rows of citizens with wide eyes and smiling mouths do not stop their cheering, noise billowing upward into the starless night sky. The long stretch of street the chariots must travel down is lined either side with manic crowds, all clapping and yelling for their favourites, and Belle knows when her chariot has been truly seen.

A wave of cat-calls rises up, cheering exploding through the ranks as her face plasters itself across the screens dotted about the City Circle, as Saph called it earlier. Russell's words ring in her mind, and Gold's heavy stare presses itself into her skin even now. She knows he's watching, and she will not disappoint. Not if she wants to survive.

The smile she gives is long and curling, the kind that she's seen girls and women alike shoot at Gaston, trying to appear the very essence of womanhood and the most attractive of women. She has no idea if she succeeds, but she doesn't need to know. She just needs to _try_.

And so she does. She lowers her lashes and waves to the crowd, angling her neck, making herself something to be desired, something to be _sponsored_.

The clapping is drowned out by the yells of approval – at least, Belle thinks they're of approval. Only when she sees Gold's face or watches the replay of the ceremony will she truly know.

The crowds cheer on even after her district's chariot has passed, but the clapping subsides to near-politeness for those following her, apart from District 10.

The noise that echoes through the Circle is so loud that Belle turns and looks back at a nearby television screen as the chariot pulls about and comes to a halt. The girl in the cow-print is sending out tentative smiles and tiny waves, all bouncing brown curls and moon-pale skin, her large eyes reflecting the adoring crowd.

Now Belle knows the angle the girl's team has given her: _innocence_. And to the Capitol audience being lily-white is as precious as gold.

The rest of the chariots fall in behind those already stationary in front of the president's balcony, and the crowds suddenly hush just as Belle looks up to see President Snow beginning to take the stage.

His suit is finely pressed, sparkling little buttons and golden thread lining his jacket, but it is his piercing gaze and the innocent white rose peeking from his top pocket that catches her eye. He is a man made of contradictions, but not in the sense that appeals. No, Belle knows Snow is a wolf in ill-fitting sheep's clothing, and the bursting seams are all too obvious.

His large nose looks powdered, and his skin seems to sag a little under his jaw, but not in a way that speaks of age, rather of being infirm. But his eyes, those bright, pale blue eyes are all-knowing, all-seeing, and they chill her to the bone.

His thick lips part in a shadow of a smile, and his annual speech begins.

"Welcome. _Welcome_. Welcome to the seventy-second annual _Hunger Games_!"

The crowds cheer like trained dogs at those two words: Hunger Games. Their lives revolve around the losers and the winners, the bloodbaths and the victories, and Belle represses a shudder at the thought of being trapped, _forever_, in this gilded, blood-spattered cage. At least she'll die, or, hopefully, leave this place a victor. The citizens never will. They will always be stuck, here.

She doesn't know who she pities more.

Snow's eyes demand silence, and he receives it in abundance, the baying crowds hushing instantaneously at his unspoken command.

"We, the Capitol," the President continues, "wish you, the chosen tributes, a fair and prosperous Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour!"

The white-haired man gives a conservative wave along with his pantomime smile, the crowds suddenly cheering once more with his obvious approval. He removes himself from his gilded lectern and sits again, the crowd around the Circle clapping and following his lead, like puppets released from their master's skilled hands.

The chariots roll on.

Belle makes sure to smile and wave again, on the way to the Training Centre, but Reel, at her side, slumps against the side of the chariot, gripping the edge with white knuckles.

She wants to tell him to be brave, that trying to survive is better than giving up altogether, but no words manage to escape her parted lips. He doesn't want her advice, she knows, and so she closes her mouth, saving her breath for someone who hasn't already turned their back on her.

That person turns out to be none other than Gold.

When the chariot pulls into the Training Centre, coming to a sedate halt, Belle climbs down after Reel and sees her district's only victor standing at the bottom of the white steps leading into the pristine building.

She watches Gold's dark eyes flick to Reel, who marches off inside ahead of them, Saph and the team trailing behind. But Gold's gaze soon returns to Belle.

The tributes and their teams move about them, milling around the chariots and talking boisterously before, more or less, unanimously heading inside. Hardly anyone casts a glance at the entranced female tribute from District 8 practically _floating_ towards her taciturn and sharp-tongued mentor.

Gold's long, black coat flaps in the cool, evening breeze that comes through the large Training Centre doors before they close out the night, and strands of his wavy hair bend and sway to the will of the wind, before falling loosely about his face. His mouth curls, flashing that sparkle of gold. Belle finds it mesmerising.

Her voice, when it comes, is soft as she steps towards him. "What's the verdict? Good?"

His gaze flutters, moving from her face to her long, bare legs, to her feet in the pinching heels, to her curves revealed under the harsh courtyard lights and in her tight dress, and then to her lips, where his eyes rest a moment before meeting her gaze again.

"Oh, yeah," Gold breathes in his gruff, lilting brogue. "I think you made quite the impression."

Belle's shoes click on the flat, stone cobbles as she steps up beside him, desperately trying to keep her eyes on his and not anything else, like the slight sliver of exposed skin at the undone top button on his black shirt.

She feels hot, like the wide space is closing in on them, and her fingertips _itch_. She wonders if this is what men feel when they see a woman they like, and she has to ask herself who taught _Gold_ how to be seductive.

Because he is, and there's no way around it. And while she should be asking herself why she's only just feeling this now, after being in his presence before, she's really wondering whether he might feel the same.

His lowered eyelids, his blown pupils, and his slightly parted lips make her want to believe he does, that he's feeling this itch, this nagging feeling that they should be doing something more than staring at each other, but she's too polite to ask and too full of this crazy, heady feeling to really want to know.

She thinks it might be the thrill of being wanted, being _good_ at being wanted, but she knows it's much more than that. There's something about this man that's so..._alluring_, and it thrills her so deeply she's sure she'll never feel something so strongly ever again.

His voice reaches her when she thinks it most improbable. "Let's get you inside, Belle."

She can't help but smile at her name on his lips.

* * *

**Author's note**: Finished this off and couldn't resist posting it early! Merry Christmas Eve!


	3. Where My Mouth Is

_**The Birds They Put In Cages**_

– _**Chapter 3 –**_

* * *

'_I got a strong will, just weak hands,_

_And I don't know what to do,_

_with either one of them...'_

–_Taking Back Sunday_

* * *

Their trip up to the eighth floor is arduous at best.

The atrium is full of permitted personnel, taking time out of their jobs to coo over their favourite tributes as the latter make their way to their assigned floors. Some people – once Belle has been spotted – try to touch her, reaching out with colourfully-stained fingertips, but Gold's cutting glare is enough to ward off their curiosity.

The people still crowd though, jostling to get a good look at Belle as she forces herself towards the opening elevator doors, gaze fixed in the immediate distance. Her heels catch her out a time or two, but Gold is there to cup her elbow and lend her strength as they push their way through the sea of strange faces.

She hears her name called more than once as she enters the elevator, as if she might reconsider disappearing and stay just for them to gawk at if they shout in just the right way. When the shining elevator doors finally shut, she can still see all those eyes on her.

Belle catches her breath, aware that her hands are trembling slightly, and gives herself a moment to calm down. It is as she takes deep and silent breaths that she realises the elevator is incredibly warm and that she can smell...something.

At first, she thinks it might be her own scent – the one misted over her by Russell and the team – but it's far too masculine and not floral enough by half. It is, she realises, _Gold_.

Out of the corner of her eye, as the elevator quickly rises, she takes a long glimpse of his slightly exposed neck, wondering how the smooth skin can call to her so much. His scent is pleasant and warm, stirring something inside of her, and it is spiced, nearly sweet, something more natural than cologne.

The doors open silently, and the darkened and empty apartment greets them. Gold extends a hand to indicate Belle should exit first, and so she does, with murmured thanks and a smile.

The first thing she does is sit on the shallow step down from the elevator so she can take off her pinching heels. She breathes a sigh of relief once they're off, thrown to the wayside.

Gold does not disappear as Belle had previously considered he might, down one of the unexplored hallways to the rooms that he, presumably, occupies. No, he hesitates somewhere near her shoulder, hands twitching about the gilded handle of his cane.

He doesn't turn up the dimmed lights, but neither does Belle. They stay where they are for the longest moment, Belle digging her freed toes into the soft carpet and Gold watching her.

She wonders if everyone is already in bed, preparing for what tomorrow will bring, and she knows she should be doing the same. But thoughts of her yellow room do not appeal, not with Gold standing so close, the revelation of her attraction to him and his enticing scent hanging in the air between them.

He seems to sense her reluctance. "Not tired?"

"I am, but I don't want to sleep."

His smile is slow and curling. "I see."

She looks up at him in time to see his gaze flick from her towards the door of the games room and back.

"How about a game?"

"The one with the green table?"

Gold nods, and proffers his hand in a chivalrous gesture.

"I don't know how to play," she murmurs, reaching to take his fingers in hers.

"I'll teach you," he tells her, helping her up on her aching toes.

His hand is surprisingly warm in hers, his skin not at all clammy or cold like it was rumoured to be in the district. Faintly, she asks herself whether he's _anything_ like his legend, and, more importantly, why she likes finding reasons to think he's not.

His hand leaves hers once she is on her feet and following him across the apartment. Her fingers ache strangely.

The shaded lamp over the felted table flickers to life, bathing the room in a faint golden-green glow, as Gold opens the door to the room, and Belle doesn't debate whether closing the door behind them is a good idea or not. She just does it.

He slips off his coat, throwing it over a small metal stool in the corner, before beginning work on the buttons of his suit jacket.

Belle watches beneath her lashes, savouring every flicker of heat that licks at her belly as she watches Gold remove the scant layers, before stopping at his dark waistcoat and rolling up his black shirtsleeves.

When he looks at her again, it is with an arched eyebrow and a more than cursory look at her apparel.

"Sure you don't want to get changed, dearie?"

Belle shrugs, stepping up to the side of the table and running a fingertip along the soft lining. "Will it matter?"

He clears his throat, finger crooking at the knot of his already loosened tie. "Probably not."

Suddenly, with a tap of Gold's hand, the table flares to life.

Belle watches as lights dance across the green surface, before fleshing out into little, brightly coloured spheres. Gold's eyes remain steadfastly fixed upon her, even as the holographic balls scatter and arrange themselves in a neat triangle.

He beckons her closer with a smile. She can't resist.

Coming to his side, Belle sees a single shining ball blink closer to them, three-quarters of the way across the table, before glowing and dimming repeatedly, as if calling for action. Only now do his eyes leave her.

Gold's hands reach out in mid-air, hovering above the side of the table, before another image appears between his fingers, flickering and colouring and fleshing out until it looks almost real.

He manipulates the stick-like object without touching it, carefully moving his hands and his body until the image aligns with the glowing ball. His face is creased a little in concentration, his mouth slightly parted, and he keeps his eyes on the ball as he lowers his eye-level, twisting the fingers of his right hand as he slowly pulls them away from the splayed ones of his left.

Belle watches in fascination as the stick rears back with Gold's movements, before plunging forwards and sending the white ball rocketing into the others arranged at the opposite end of the table.

The coloured spheres scatter noiselessly, bouncing about the table and colliding with each other, before gently slowing to a halt. All except for one: a pink which sinks from existence into a dark corner hole, which must have come into existence at the same time as the balls.

Gold straightens up and turns to look at her, the lines from his face gone in the wake of his sudden smile. "Solids."

She doesn't have time to voice her confusion, because Gold slips a tentative hand about her waist and urges her towards him.

"This," he says softly, drawing the stick into Belle's raised hands, "is the cue. Follow my lead."

Belle does as she's told, following Gold's motions as he indicates she should lay her left hand on the felt and she should manipulate the cue with her right.

"The aim is to sink all of your balls into any of the holes before me," he continues over her shoulder, his right hand wrapping around hers to show her a smoother movement when twisting the cue. "I sunk a colour, so the solid ones are mine. You have the stripes. Sink those first, then that black ball there." He points. "Then, you win."

He says it as if it's _that_ easy, as if there isn't any kind of proper skill that needs to be brought into the game, and Belle wonders if he's subtly suggesting that all games can be won, even without experience. Even the Hunger Games.

Belle finds it hard to concentrate with Gold right behind her, his hands hovering at her back as he mutters advice into her pinned-up hair. She misses her first shot at the white ball, and the second's too slow to get the ball going very fast, but it hits one of her balls and none of his, which he tells her is a good thing, and she's relieved that she's not making a total idiot out of herself in front of him.

They take turns, firing the white ball at their separate suits, and while Gold is quick and precise, sinking nearly all of his targets, she is slow. But her aim does not leave something to be desired. Belle sinks a fair few balls, barely missing being penalised – or so Gold says – and she keeps up with her mentor in a way that brings a pleased flush to her cheeks and a grin to her lips.

Gold, too, is looking impressed.

"Well," he practically drawls in that accent of his. "You did tell me you're good with your hands."

Though Belle's sure he hadn't intended for there to be a husky tone to his voice and a deeper meaning to his words, she hears it, and it makes her heart thump violently in her chest.

She should be scared, or disgusted, or even _worried_ that he might find her appealing, but she isn't. In fact, she's _pleased_. She likes this feeling – this womanly sense that she can affect this man just as much as he affects her – and she relishes the way it fills her with a sense of empowerment. Not power over him, but power over _herself_.

They continue their play until Gold sinks his final colour and Belle is left with two of her stripes. He announces he'll sink the black in the top-right 'pocket,' and misses.

Belle's turn sees her pocketing both of her balls in quick succession, leaving her with the black as the only ball still gracing the green felt of the table. The position she has to take, however, to sink the black with the white, is more than awkward.

After a moment's adjustment, leaning over the corner of the table and giving a soft grunt, Belle realises this is a little bit out of her range of beginner's luck.

She pulls back, only to find that Gold has already come to her aid. He stands behind her, hands planted firmly against the edge of the table, keeping her there, against him.

But Belle doesn't feel trapped, pressed into the hard wood with his warmth washing over her back, and she is all too willing to stay there, close to him, feeling his breath against the side of her neck. She swallows, the sound ringing in her ears, and wishes he'll just lean in a little bit more, so she'll know what it feels like to have Gold's lips against her skin.

Her new desires rage riotously beneath her flesh as Gold's breath washes over her shoulder.

"Stay where you are," he tells her, sounding a little dazed himself. "Just lean forwards a little more. That's it."

She does as directed, leaning forward and stretching out, but the position gives way to heated thoughts and breathlessness. She wonders whether he can possibly be feeling the same thing as her, as this arrangement of their bodies makes adrenaline chase her blood through her veins.

Gold does not move from behind her, and Belle has such a deep and natural urge to press back against him like some sinuous and over-grown feline.

"Uh...top-left?" Belle absently whispers, unsure, and pulls back the cue to take the shot, her elbow brushing Gold's firm chest.

She has no idea how she has enough presence of mind to continue to breathe, let alone finish the game, but she does, the black ball disappearing into the top-left hole, causing the holographic interface to flicker and die, the game over.

With no cue in her hands, she is left prone against the edge of the table with no purpose, other than to have Gold at her back, breathing audibly and remaining still.

Slowly, she straightens, finding herself so close to her mentor, not an inch from him. She wants to turn around and touch him with a purpose, but, for the first time, she is a little afraid.

She's afraid of this burning desire, not only to have him pressed against her but to also see his mask slip. It's with no small amount of satisfaction – and something akin to pride – that she can say he acts differently around her now, smiling and being so close, even without touching.

It's like she's found something, strange and new, stumbling about in the dark, and she doesn't know what it is yet, with him, but she wants to keep it. She's just afraid that she's the only one feeling this way and that the combustible energy inside of her will blow her apart at even the notion of her insecurity being justified.

After a moment more of staring down at Gold's white-knuckled hands, he releases her, much to Belle's displeasure. She takes an unsure step away from him and the table, putting a distance between them that is fraught with heat and tension. A tension that she, at least, feels.

Belle looks up to find Gold's gaze is dark and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks torn and troubled, and she hates it.

"Thank you," Belle utters, stumbling over her words a little. "For teaching me. I better...better..."

Gold cuts her off, his expression carefully untroubled. "Goodnight, dearie."

For a moment, she is hurt by the finality in his tone, urging her to leave, but she realises that this is good, that he is giving her an out to really think about this sudden development between them. He just can't help being cool with her, and she surprises herself by knowing this about him already.

He's a mystery she suddenly realises she wants to unwrap.

Belle smiles, drawing away to open the door. "Goodnight, Gold."

If he seems surprised by her warm response, she doesn't see it. She simply turns and leaves, not looking back to see if he watches her as she goes. She already knows he is.

* * *

Belle's been up most of the night, thinking about all sorts of things, and while Gold is quite high on the list, she's also been curious about what people now think of her after the Opening Ceremony.

The enormous television on District 8's floor has been playing nothing but re-runs and Hunger Games updates since Belle turned it on, and she's been sitting in front of it, enraptured.

She appears from time to time, her smiling face and lowered lashes, and Caesar Flickerman likes to mention the effect she's had on the Capitol's male population with exaggerated sighs and longing looks. It makes her laugh.

But she's mainly watching for the ever-fluctuating chance-levels of a tribute becoming Victor. Every ten minutes, a screen flashes, displaying pictures of all twenty-four tributes and their chances of winning the Games depending on their popularity.

Belle's chance is high, but not the highest. No, that honour goes to the girl from Ten, _Avalon_. But Belle doubts the two of them will remain so highly ranked once the training begins and their deadliness and skills are assessed. It will be the Careers' turn then to make up for their losses.

The screen turns black before Belle's eyes, and she turns and looks over the plush, red couch to see Saph, remote in-hand.

"Come on," the escort says, putting down the remote on the side-table and smoothing down the front of her flawless, powder blue, silk dress. "Russell wants you dressed and ready for training."

Belle glances at the clock on the wall to the left, behind Saph's blonde head. It's early, but she doesn't mention it to the escort, because the woman looks like she knows she doesn't want to be awake just yet.

Belle reluctantly lifts herself from the couch and follows Saph back to her room. The red-moustached stylist is already at the wardrobe, waiting, and smiles when Belle makes her appearance.

"Let's get you ready!" He says in a sing-song voice, setting Belle on edge as he reaches forward and begins to disrobe her of her soft, flannel pyjamas.

It's embarrassing, once again, to be naked in front of practical strangers, and Saph and Russell make it no easier on Belle by commenting on a birthmark _here_ or a lovely curve _there_. But, soon, she is dressed in tight, dark blue trousers and a form-fitting, white vest with her district's badge pinned to it.

Bowlby takes his time pinning her hair in a secure and elaborate knot, commenting, "Blue's definitely your colour."

He lets two curls fall either side of her face, brushing her bare collarbones. She looks pretty, she thinks, and a fluttering erupts in her belly at the thought that Gold might think so too.

* * *

Belle slumps against the balcony's glass wall, her head in her hands as her knees tremble.

The city below is vast and shining, the apartment behind so dark and confining, and if it weren't for the shield keeping her from harm, she would, most likely, just toss herself over the edge.

Her eyes are streaming and she wipes at them uselessly with the back of her hand, her gaze rising to the cloudless, starry sky.

She wishes to be at home, cooking for her father, rolling her eyes at his future plans for her and Gaston, inwardly dreaming of owning her own shop filled with piles and shelves and _stacks_ of books. She wishes not to be a tribute. She wishes not to have the angle she does. She wishes she doesn't have to play up the _tiniest facet_ in her character.

She had eaten breakfast this morning with Reel and the team, delighting in the fresh fruit and cream, before being shown down to the underground training rooms. The head trainer, Ruth, had laid down the law and then explained what each station could teach the assembled tributes, before letting everyone begin their training.

It had been at that point that everything had gone wrong.

The Careers had begun training with deadly weapons – spears, swords, maces – while Belle had found herself completely immersed in survival skills. She'd made snares, dabbled in camouflage, and aced the poisonous plants test, thanks to a particularly memorable book on dangerous flora.

It had been then, looking past the smiling trainer's head, that she had seen Reel, small as he stood in front of the large, bronzed boy from Four, flipping a silver knife in his hand. His eyes had met hers, past the Career, and he'd thrown the dagger without even blinking, marking, albeit a little akilter, the target clear across the weaponry area.

The Career had turned, grinning, clapping the triumphant Reel on the shoulder, and looked directly at Belle. They said something to each other, before turning away and moving on, gravitating back towards the main group of Careers.

Reel has a talent, and he's chosen a side. Belle's day has only gotten worse.

She'd attempted the obstacle courses – made up of steel bars, ropes and nets – and passed each one, just about. It had, however, distracted her from the movements of the Careers that seemed so keen to catch her eye, and she had run right into the boy from Four.

His green eyes had burned her when she'd glanced up, panting, to see who she'd collided with. His muscles had rippled, his white teeth had made an appearance, and he'd gripped her outstretched wrist.

"_Grand_," he'd told her, referring to himself. "And you're The Rose from Eight."

It had been then that she'd found out what is truly being circulated about her. She's being called '_The Rose_' and Grand had made it clear that her angle is getting her noticed. She's already a pin-up in most Capitol homes, he'd told her, and she's already being fought over.

She hadn't said a word to him. Grand had done all the talking.

And now she knows what Saph had meant by getting a good price for her and Belle being a "magnificent prize." Some Victors are sold, given to the highest bidder for the night, and people are already paying handsomely for the privilege of having her in their beds, should she win. She's caught the public's eye and their imagination, and she wants nothing more than to crawl in a hole and die.

A warm hand suddenly curls over her shoulder, knocking her out of her thoughts.

Belle flinches, angling away from the newcomer and turning to see that it is the last person she wants to look at at this particular moment. She'd thought Gold had been on her side from the beginning, liking her or at least seeing something worthy of protecting, but now she knows he's just using her. Like everyone else.

She keeps her gaze firmly fixed on the lapel of his black jacket. "What?"

Her voice is husky and she knows her eyes are small and red from crying. His hand, hovering where her shoulder had been before she'd moved it, drops and curls in a fist at his side.

"Care to tell me what's going on?"

Belle's arms find their way about her waist, fingers gripping the seams of her vest with white knuckles. She turns back to the city at night, and her eyes lock onto a distant glass building bathed in blue light.

She tries not to think of holographic spheres and bated breaths.

Her voice catches in her throat. "I-I found out. I know what happens to me...if I win."

There's such a long pause after her statement that she would think he'd turned around and gone back inside if it weren't for the dull spice of him in the air.

His hand finds her again, this time pressed to her spine, and she can't escape his touch. He moves in beside her, his heat washing over her cool skin.

"I'm sorry, dearie," he murmurs in those dulcet tones of his. "I _had _hoped to avoid this particular occurrence."

"What, me finding out my virginity's being sold at market?"

He turns quiet, but she hears his breathing, forced and even.

"If it were up to me," Gold finally says, "I'd spare every single one of you. But it's not. It's up to the president, and you, _especially_, are going to make him a bundle, dear."

Belle slumps once more over the glass, her hair falling in her eyes. "So what point is there in surviving this?"

There's a beat, and then Gold's hands suddenly clamp around her waist. He hauls her backwards, turning her to face him in his hold. Belle blinks up at him owlishly, staring at his twisted lip and bared teeth. His eyes convey his complete fury.

"Your name is _Rosebay_," he growls, as if this makes everything clear.

The turn in conversation leaves her lost.

"What?" She whispers.

"Your name is Clarabelle Rosebay," Gold tells her roughly, eyes dark and lidded, with his hair falling across his face as he holds her tightly to him. "Rosebay is another name for Fireweed, dear. Fireweed is a pioneer species – _tough_ – and it colonises damaged plains ravaged by fire or clearings, making the soil clean again and ready for more life to grow. Just because you've drawn the short straw doesn't mean it won't get better. I won't let you just_ give up_."

Her mouth opens and closes a time or two as she looks directly into his eyes, trying to see whether he's serious or not. The answer is obvious: of course he is.

Suddenly, she realises their proximity, the feel of his hot breath on her face, and how his hands are holding her. His body is lean, but she can feel his underlying strength, and her hands find their way under his jacket. He's so warm through his silk shirt.

Gold's face slackens, his anger visibly leaking from him. Belle's breathing quickens. She has no idea what they're doing and every idea all at once.

"I won't..." His dark-whisky eyes pierce her. "I won't see you throw _everything_ away for _them_."

She knows he means the Capitol when he says '_them_', and she knows, now, that he _is_, in fact, on her side, but she is unsure what he means by '_everything_.' His eyes clue her in.

Her heart pounds. "Do you mean you..."

His hand, so secure and warm, slides up her spine, into her mussed hair, and holds her head almost...delicately. Indecision flickers over his face as he draws their lips closer together, inch by inch, until they are a hair's breadth apart and all Belle wants to do is kiss the man to end the suspense.

"I really mean I," Gold whispers lowly, teasingly, rolling the 'r' and gifting her with a sly and wobbly half-grin. "For a long time."

He looks surprised at his own honesty, and she has to ask, "Since the district?"

His nod comes slowly, but when it does it is quick and perfunctory: a tentative answer to her question. Her eyes, she knows, pry for more.

"I..." Gold licks his lips, nearly touching Belle's. "I was going to finally talk to you after your next birthday...once I was sure..."

"That I wouldn't be in the Games," she finishes.

Another nod. "I thought it would be best. I'm a paranoid man, Belle. I'd seen you, but I'd never gotten to know you, not until the train, and now I know you can _win_ this. We can be together, Belle...if you want. However you want."

Her mind is racing, but she can utter the truth. "You fascinate me."

"I can't resist you," he replies in kind, a pained expression crossing his features.

"Kiss me, then," Belle urges in a single breath, and he complies.

He tastes like the sugared pastries the kitchens supply, and his lips are so deceivingly soft for a man, especially one fifteen years her senior. His face is so touchable under her exploratory fingers, even with the little hair along his jaw-line since his last shave, and his wavy locks are so very fine, feeling like silk between her fingertips.

The glorious addition of his tongue makes her dizzy. She's kissed before, had fleeting touches and stolen moments with a couple of boys, not _men_, from her district, but she's never felt this explosive feeling shaking in her chest, nearly ready to crack her in two if he doesn't continue to kiss her like a dying man.

And he is. Gold's touch turns fiery, his fingertips moving over her skin in blazing trails, and a moan rises from his heaving chest. It's like she's his very last chance at salvation and he won't let her slip between his fingers.

Belle can feel her breasts meeting his chest, matching his pace, her heart hammering against her ribs, and it is perfect. He leaves her aching in wonderful ways, the tip of his tongue against hers sharpening her hunger for him.

When the urge to take a great, rattling breath can be stifled no longer – not even for Gold – Belle breaks the kiss, tightening her arms about his neck as he keeps her upright on her weak knees.

His harsh breath ruffles her hair as he rests his cheek on the top of her head, her face naturally finding a warm and secret place against his neck. He smells like sweet and musky spice.

Belle's lips curve into an unchecked smile against his thrumming pulse. "Can I really win this?"

Her voice is so soft. Gold gives a breathless bark of laughter, coiling his arms around her more tightly.

"I don't doubt it for a moment."


	4. Immigrant Song

_**The Birds They Put In Cages**_

– _**Chapter 4 –**_

* * *

'_How soft, your fields so green,_

_can whisper tales of gore,_

_Of how we calmed the tides of war,_

_We are your overlords...'_

–_Led Zeppelin_

* * *

The next two days of training pass more easily than the first.

The Careers tend to leave Belle alone, and none of the other tributes seem too keen on getting to know her. She can't blame them. She hasn't even bothered learning most of their names, just those that threaten her most.

Avalon, Belle learns, is quick. Grand is powerful. Harp, the girl from District 1, is sly, and Vanish, her male counterpart, is deadly with a sword. Paige, the redhead girl from District 2, can perform no end of amazing acrobatic stunts.

Today, after lunch – where Belle has sat on her own every day, at the end of the furthest table from the doors, – they call the tributes in for their private sessions. The long room slowly empties as name after name, and district after district is called, until it is Belle's turn.

She would be nervous, she thinks, if Gold hadn't talked her into showing off the only concrete talent she has that can possibly get her noticed and a good score.

She steps into the training room alone, all eyes on her. The Gamemakers' watch her from their special, catered balcony, and their gazes are almost palpable on her back as she heads straight towards the heavy weapons station.

Belle had reached the weaponry yesterday, and after finding herself incapable of firing an arrow and moving on to the next station, she had picked up an axe.

She does the same now, lifting one of the smaller hatchets from the shining, chrome display. The soft, black grip of the handle fits snugly in her curled fist, and the steel feels blessedly cool against her carefully-placed thumb.

She hasn't seen anyone else handle an axe this year. Gold had persuaded her that this might just be the talent to get her a reasonable score.

Belle hadn't shown off yesterday during training, instead choosing to restrain the ease with which she had been surprised to find in throwing the axe at the targets across the range.

She lifts the hatchet at her side, twisting her body, and just...breathes. She pulls her hand back sharply, before she can change her mind or really _think_ about her technique, and releases with a quick lunge. She's sloppy, _unpractised_, but there's no denying that her aim is true when the silver axe buries itself in the forehead of the sturdy, white target dummy.

Soft clapping and pleased murmuring rings out from behind, around the Gamemakers table on their low balcony, but she is not done. Not yet.

Belle turns back to the weapon station, mouth set with determination, before selecting one of the larger, _heavier_ axes. A murmur rises from the Gamemakers, but she manages to ignore them. Living in an industrial district with smog and food rationing, Belle hasn't managed to get through life without lifting a few heavy objects.

Since she was a little girl, she's been asked to carry rolls of fabric back and forth, heavy parts for the machines, and boxes from the warehouse. So weight is not a terrible problem for her, though her leanness belies her strength.

She thinks this is why the axe has come to be her friend so very recently. Though she needs to be able to aim, there is no particular finesse required. Her good eye, steady hand, and strength mean she's more deadly than she could have ever realised.

She can, now, also engage in close-quarters combat.

The axe she holds in her hand is not decorative in the least, made only for heavy damage and functionality, and as she takes it in her two hands and lifts it over her shoulder, she can feel that it will strike true.

With a short grunt and a deep breath, she angles herself and brings the axe down. The thick, sharp curve of unforgiving metal embeds itself deep in the floor of the gym with an echoing and almighty _crack_.

Looking down, hair in her face, Belle sees her eye has not failed her, and her steady hand has planted the axed deeply in the centre of one of the white lines that mark out the weapon training zone. The hard floor is cracked around the blade.

She releases the handle with a small, satisfied smile, leaving the axe embedded in the ground.

Belle turns to see the Gamemakers are looking equal parts stunned and appreciative. They like her – she _knows_ it.

She gives them a curling smile – one she intends to patent over the coming days of the Games – and removes herself from the room, slowly.

As the thick, metal doors close behind her, she sees a trainer has been summoned and is straining to extricate the axe from the damaged floor. His effortful sounds resound until the doors snap shut.

Her heart flies, and what feels like pure adrenaline courses through her veins now that it's over. She's directed by two leather-clad Peacekeepers down the bright hallways of the Centre, towards the main atrium. Saph awaits her there in her full azure regalia, waving off the uniformed men with her blue claws and leading Belle towards the elevators.

"Well?" The escort enquires as they step up and wait for their transport.

Belle's unrestrained smile is enough of an answer.

* * *

Reel sits on the very end of the plush couch, half-hovering off of the cushion to make it clear he's only staying to see his own score appear on the television screen. The stylists are watching the proceedings elsewhere, so only Saph and Gold sit between the two tributes from District 8.

Belle has her hands pressed together between her knees to stop their fidgeting as she patiently waits out the scores of the private sessions. It's make or break, and she wishes she hadn't eaten all of that dinner, because she's so nervous she feels nauseous.

After the usual fanfare of dramatic music and introductions to the programme, the presentation begins. A photo of each tribute appears, along with their score.

Harp scores an eight. Vanish scores a nine. Paige scores an eight. Grand receives a large, flashing ten, and Belle sees Gold's eyes flick towards her momentarily, as if gauging her reaction. A smallish boy from District 7 scores a surprising six, causing Saph to let out a murmur.

Reel scores an eight.

He's gone before anyone can say anything to him. Belle turns slightly to give Gold a glance – his gaze is firmly fixed to the screen, a grin on his lips. She wonders if he enjoys the rivalry between her and Reel, and the way they are not disillusioned about their immediate future.

Belle turns back to see her face appear on the wide television screen, a smoulderingly inviting smile on her reddened lips, and a sparkling _ten _flashing across her likeness.

Stunned, she only just recognises that Gold's strong hand is on her knee, squeezing, and that Saph is yapping excitedly in her seat. Belle's head spins.

"Ten?" She barely manages to whisper.

Gold leans in slightly, his voice as quiet as hers. "Congratulations, Belle."

A smile spreads across her lips. She thinks of Red, and her father, watching on small, battered television sets back in the district, staring at her score and knowing she has at least a _chance_ of coming back alive.

High scores can make tributes targets, especially to Careers, but they're also a warning of danger to others. Belle knows this will make her even more unpopular amongst her fellow tributes, but now the rich citizens of the Capitol have something more substantial to sponsor than a pin-up.

She is dangerous. She is beguiling. She is _one to watch_.

Or so Caesar Flickerman says anyway.

Gold's lips brush Belle's ear – once Saph has deserted her seat and left the two of them alone in search of a celebratory drink – and his voice is so husky, it's chill-inducing. He's become so much more familiar with her now – small touches, soft words – like he's finally able to treat her how he _sees_ her, not as just a tribute.

"They'll be calling you the Bloody Rose soon, I'll wager," he playfully growls.

Belle huffs out a laugh, absently glancing up at the television screen only to see Avalon's small and delicate features displayed there. Gold whispers in Belle's ear again, but she hears nothing.

The tiny girl from District 10 has scored zero. The message is obvious: disobedience will not be brooked.

Avalon is worth nothing.

* * *

Saph is furious for the entire evening of the last training day and the whole of the next morning, which is the day of preparing for the interviews.

The escort drags Belle from her seat at the breakfast table – which makes Gold raise a displeased eyebrow – and into her room, closing the door and pushing her towards the clothes hanger peeking from the open closet.

"Can you _believe _it? That little wretch is playing a dangerous game. It's so obvious!"

Belle ignores Saph, instead looking at Russell's work. The ball gown is fabulously intricate, all flowing flesh-pink satin, and deviously eye-catching. Saph still continues her rant even as she helps Belle undress and redress in the gown.

The dress is beautiful, the fabric expensive, and the detailing fine – the pale pink silk folds, wraps, and drapes over Belle's body perfectly from an off-the-shoulder cut, with a slit bordered with delicate white lace reaching to the top of her left thigh. A corsage of the same silk that makes up the dress is twisted into a burst of flowers that sit on and slide down the side of her left breast, and the way the dress is made up makes it seem as though the small flowers each hold an end of the satin wrappings to Belle's body.

Saph takes a breath and stops her yapping long enough to take in Belle's appearance. Her hair is bed-mussed and messy – no thanks to a few passionate kisses with Gold before she slept last night – but the crushed curls add a lazily seductive edge to Belle's appearance.

The escort speculatively squeezes a curl or two in her clawed hands. "We'll have Bowlby do your hair like this for the interview, I think."

Saph forgets her ire at the unlucky tribute from Ten long enough to give Belle a few instructions on walking, talking, breathing, smiling, and everything else in between. By the time the escort's finished – hours after her half-finished breakfast – Belle is exhausted and starving. Advice about not showing too many teeth when smiling and not balancing entirely on the balls of her feet in heels is obnoxiously bouncing about her skull.

They break for lunch, but Belle leaves the gown on, too hungry to be bothered to get changed first.

She takes a seat at the table, watching the small team of Avoxes bring in plates and baskets full of breads, meats, and sweet pastries. The elevator to the floor then _ding_s softly, giving Belle the chance to see her full effect on Gold as the doors open to admit him into the apartment. She watches him step out in his usual dark suit and red silk tie, turning to see her.

The angle at which she sits affords him a full look at the gown, and she sees his eyes slide over every inch of her. Her leg, revealed by the split in the dress, is given special treatment by his gaze. He looks hungry, and not for lunch.

She's sure enough of what happens in a bed to say that, at this particular moment, he's thinking about doing the exact, same thing with her. And it's not like she's immune to him, because she's definitely not – not while he's looking at her with so much heat in his eyes, his white knuckles gripping the head of his cane, and his layers of clothing making her fingers _itch_.

His slightly lopsided gait brings him to the table slowly. His eyes remain on Belle.

"So? How did it go?" Saph asks eagerly, promptly bursting their little bubble.

Gold gives Belle a thrillingly long look, before taking a seat next to Saph and shedding his coat and cane. He removes his leather gloves and takes up a bread roll, tearing it in half and smearing thick, rich butter on it with a gleaming knife.

Belle absently wonders how long it was before he was able to pick up a knife again, just for mundane purposes, after killing that girl. She doubts that she'd ever be able to look at one the same if it had happened to her.

"Swimmingly," Gold eventually answers Saph, before taking a bite of his roll.

Belle practically inhales the food on her plate as she watches Saph stare at Gold with a calculating expression. He says nothing more, continuing with his lunch.

"_And_?" Saph urges finally, leaning over her bare plate. "There must have been more than _one_."

Gold glances down at his plate, wiping off his knife on a napkin and picking up a roll before covering it in jam. Belle sees the tension in his shoulders, the hard set of his mouth, and she knows that this is about her.

"How much am I going for?" Belle asks, taking up a sharp knife and calmly carving herself an apple to give her nervous fingers a purpose.

Gold's brow creases a fraction, but his gaze remains lowered. For a moment, Belle thinks that he won't tell her.

"You're bringing home the bacon, dear. Let's leave it at that," he finally acquiesces, but Saph is having none of it.

The escort twists excitedly in her seat, eyebrows high and eyes bright. "That much? Do you think–"

"You're not going to be forgiven for your past _indiscretions_, Sapphire," Gold snarls at her, looking up, teeth bared. "No amount of money could ever get you _that_, but you might be able to buy yourself a bit of peace and safety. Isn't that _enough_?"

The hard, cold, steely nature of his words chill Belle, especially when she thinks of the soft and incredibly pleasant sweet nothings that he can whisper in her ear, making her soul sing with just a careless phrase in that brogue of his. But she knows that pulling up his defences, closing every shutter, and becoming this indestructible, zero-tolerance Hunger Games victor is just how he protects himself. And now how he protects her.

Saph backs down. She's gotten her answer.

Gold takes a breath, his white teeth and gold cap hiding once more behind that placid and controlled expression of his. They continue to eat.

Belle excuses herself from the table, taking measured steps to her little yellow room and locking the door behind her. She sits on the end of her soft bed, careful of wrinkling the beautiful gown she's wearing, and just...breathes. She's been doing a lot of it lately.

She knows there's no escape for her. She's terrified of the arena, the deaths she'll have to witness and endure – possibly her own – and what will come after. if she wins. But there's a single spot of light at the end of the tunnel, when the Capitol is through with her and has chewed her up and spat her out: Gold.

He has wanted her for so long, as he's said, that it's a terrible twist of fate that she's been picked as tribute in her final year, but there can still be happiness. He's willing to protect her, _help _her, get her sponsors and keep her safe, and with their work, if she makes it through, they can be together.

Belle closes her eyes for a moment, imagining herself in the empty Victors' Village her district always forgets about. A house, a warm fire, food on the table, no work to be done and her father nowhere to be seen, and Gold, beside her, smiling, telling her it's all over, that she's _safe_.

She wants that life so badly she aches. Her eyes prick but she doesn't allow herself to cry.

Belle knows that she can sacrifice a great many things. She lost her mother long ago to sickness, and now her father at the Reaping, but she's _survived_. She knows she can risk her life and sacrifice everything she holds dear, including her very innocence, to reach glorious pastures new.

With her determination and Gold's know-how, how can they be stopped?


	5. The Kids from Yesterday

_**The Birds They Put In Cages**_

– _**Chapter 5 –**_

* * *

'_All the cameras watch the accidents,_

_and stars you hate,_

_They only care if you can bleed...'_

–_My Chemical Romance_

* * *

Her heart is racing. Even her name being called at the Reaping hadn't been this paralysing.

Gold has coached her through every possible twist and turn of conversation that she's likely to have with Caesar Flickerman, and Saph has given Belle a few good lessons about how to keep smiling and staying upright in her high heels. The shoes Belle had worn for the Opening Ceremony had been flat in comparison to the monstrosities that she has laced to her aching feet now, and she's glad for the escort's advice, even if she doesn't like Saph much.

The City Circle is bathed in warm sunlight, illuminating the thousands upon thousands crammed in the streets in front of the stage. Capitol citizens jostle for the best view of the tributes who passed by on chariots, not so long ago, on the very road under the crowd's feet. Cameras pan the audience, the assembled tributes on the newly constructed stage, the Gamemakers' white-walled balcony, and Belle knows that her district is forcibly tuned in at home, watching and waiting.

Reel sits next to her, quiet and still. She envies his discipline – she's been picking at her beautiful, false nails for the five minutes they've been sitting on the stage for.

A few familiar faces in the crowd catch her eye. She knows that the previous victors, escorts, and their teams are all seated directly in front of the stage, with the excited rabble baying behind them, but she can't spot anyone she knows directly for the life of her.

She doesn't want to screw this up. She might already be a household name and a Capitol pin-up – with a price on her (maiden) head should she emerge from the Games alive – but the interviews can still make or break a tribute. She still needs _sponsors_.

Gold has been doing his best, wining and dining and chatting up whoever will listen – and there's a fair few who want to lend an ear – and a lot of people, he told her before the interview, have expressed an enormous amount of interest...should she prove to be everything they've heard.

No one has heard her speak, or listened to her in great detail, and though the Capitol admires her body and slow, flirtatious smiles, Gold tells her that there's great demand for a voice to match the face of '_The Rose_.'

It's a great deal of strain, especially when she has to sit through most of the other tributes' interviews before she is called to the centre of the stage herself, but not as much stress, she guesses, as the latter districts must be feeling.

The dark-skinned girl from District 11 looks like she might just faint in her wheat-yellow sundress.

And then, like a miracle, she spots him. Gold – right at the front of the audience, next to one of the uniform-clad Peacekeepers – is staring her right in the eye with those whisky-coloured orbs of his.

Her heart ceases its slamming at the sight of his face, carefully controlled but nothing more than a mask. He's concerned, but she equally knows that he is willing her on. She can see it, right in the corner of his mouth, a burgeoning little smile, and it fills her with some kind of effervescent _hope_.

She's unsure how he has become a part of her psyche so very easily, like she's known him personally for months instead of days, but those years, seeing flashes of him in the district, so tantalising, so..._mysterious_, making her itch for knowledge of him...well, she's discovered she fell for the idea of him long ago, and the real thing? It seems just as easy to covet.

The minutes tick by, as do the passing tributes and their interviews, and it isn't long before Caesar is calling up Reel to take a seat.

They talk for barely three minutes, Caesar commenting on Reel's high score in training, considering his age and size, and how it must have felt – like Caesar _knows_ – to have his named called at the Reaping. The boy refuses to say anything of consequence, and certainly nothing about the tears Belle had definitely seen in his eyes.

Reel takes his seat next to her again to mild applause from the crowd, before a long and deafening hush overcomes the gathered masses. It would be a mistake, Belle thinks, to assume the silence is due to anything but sudden, wild, and _fervent_ anticipation.

Caesar's lime-green head turns, showing her his carefully coiffed bouffant and the little bow someone's secured the short tail of his haircut with. His face has been powdered pale, Belle notes. Caesar's smile is white and wide, and his lips are the same chartreuse colour as his hair. He nods and grins knowingly at the silence of the crowd, before turning more fully in his comfortably padded seat.

"Citizens, please welcome the female tribute from District Eight – you may know her as _The_ _Rose_," he drawls. "It's Clarabelle Rosebay!"

The explosion of clapping and whistling, interspersed with cat-calls and howling, as Belle takes to her numb feet is overwhelming, and it is only Gold's steady gaze that keeps her moving towards the hot-seat.

She sits as Saph taught her, crossing her ankles with poise and elegance, and she smiles at Caesar as Gold told her to, as if there's no one there to please but the host himself. It's hard, because of all the cheering, but Flickerman's easy nature helps her along.

"So, Clarabelle," Flickerman begins, clasping his hands in his lap, a strange sort of smile on his lips. "I hear you're a good bet."

He's _flirting_, Belle realises, just like Gold said he might, and she gives him a laugh and a semi-serious look.

"Well, now, I don't know _where_ you've heard that," she tells him admonishingly, and he raises his eyebrows in expectation. "I'm an _excellent _bet."

Flickerman laughs, the crowd laughs, and even Gold in the front row, who Belle can't seem to exclude from her field of vision, cracks a sly grin.

The host puts her at ease, allowing her all the opportunities she needs to make her voice heard and to get her angle across, and he whips the crowd into a frenzy over her. Or maybe she does that, Belle's not quite sure.

She's so unused to being the centre of attention, and she's certain that despite obvious appearances, she hates it, but if this is how she survives, then this is how she must continue.

Caesar asks her one last question before her time is up. "So, Clarabelle the Rose, just between you and me, _is_ there anyone – a _man_ – who's already stolen your heart?"

Belle smiles and visibly pretends to think, causing excitement to ripple through the crowd, as she inwardly – _absently_ – wonders whether Gold is, unknowingly, that man. Eventually, she puts the Capitol out of their misery, though she would dearly love to extend it.

"No one's had the pleasure of capturing me just yet." Belle leans in, conspiratorially, to Flickerman. "And I'd like to see them try."

"Oh-ho! Clarabelle Rosebay, everyone!"

She is cheered back across the stage with a tumultuous roar, and once she is ensconced in her seat, she finally risks a full look at Gold. He's looking down, smiling to himself, and Belle knows she's done well.

She's made herself a catch – available but hard to trap, and mysterious but feisty – and it's her best play so far. She sits back and congratulates herself on a job well done.

* * *

The replays of the day's Games events are over with – the sunken sun not ready to rise for a few more hours – and the night is cool against Belle's face, stars shining brightly above her head.

She wonders about the arena – how it will look, how it will change people, who will conquer it – and she thinks of the interviews. Belle has shot the farthest, like a fire-tailed star, and Avalon has fallen the hardest from grace. The poor, little girl.

Belle considers the cold air against her skin, but doesn't choose to wrap up. She wants to feel these things in case she can't any more, after tomorrow, where surviving the Cornucopia will be her first task.

She hears a noise behind her, and she knows who it is.

"Why did you come clean with me? Why not just pretend and save yourself all the heartache?" Belle enquires softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Gold's familiar, warm hand slides across her shoulder blade. "Because it wouldn't have saved me anything, sweetheart. I would still care for you. I just wouldn't be able to share this with you."

His mouth comes down on her exposed neck, his hands sliding around her middle, and she can't help but lean back into him. His warmth and smell envelops her, and it is bliss.

"It's always better to have something than nothing, Belle," Gold murmurs, and the way he mouths the words against her skin resounds so deeply within her she can't disagree with him.

They stand there like that for a moment, just enjoying the night and the quiet, ignoring the impending day and what it will bring.

"I won't see you until...after," Belle announces softly, turning her face to Gold's and pressing her nose to his shaved cheek.

He nods slightly. "Russell will take care of you – I'll see to it – and Saph and I will be raking in the sponsors at the Games Headquarters while you're out there, don't fret. Run hard and _fast_, don't look back, and...don't be afraid to live up to expectations."

Belle frowns, turning in his arms to look up into his shadowed, amber eyes. The implication is clear.

"You want me to seduce the other tributes?" She queries.

Gold closes his eyes briefly, as if in pain, before opening them again and giving her a long look. He brings the backs of his fingers up to stroke the side of her face. His touch is soft, reverent almost, and Belle can't help but think that it is the feel of a man finally allowed that which he has been denied for so long.

"The girl in the arena," he whispers roughly, "she isn't you, Belle. I know the difference between being a victor and being yourself. I know you do, too."

She grips his black lapel in one hand and pushes his hair out of his eyes with the other. She holds his face in her palm, knowing that the man in front of her is not the Victor. He's spent so much time being that person, becoming the reclusive monster of the district, but not with her, not when they're like this, and it's such a cruel twist of fate.

He must see the answer in her eyes, because he gives her his unpractised, natural smile, so soft and slow and crooked.

"Just promise me one thing," Gold breathes against her lips, enticing Belle to nod and move in closer as she wraps her arms about his neck. "Don't forget I'm here."

She laughs against his mouth. "I wouldn't worry about that."

Belle kisses him, and every day she knows will pass in the arena without him, she makes up for in increasing passion, with her fingers tangled in his hair and her tongue dancing with his.

His strangled moan makes her feel so breathlessly powerful, and the way his hands can't seem to find a place that they like best to settle at makes her smile.

She wishes she could take him to bed right now, and learn the shady mysteries that lie between the sheets with this man in her arms, but she knows that it isn't possible just yet. She'll have to give away the last inch of her innocence to some faceless, nameless Capitol citizen who is willing to put forth the most money.

But after that – after her trials and tribulations, and the men and women alike paying for her body and her company – they can be together. And she won't be The Rose.

She'll be Belle.

* * *

The night had passed too quickly, the stolen touches and kisses with Gold before bed even more so, and now she's being whisked away to some unknown location where the Gamemakers have unleashed their hell this year.

Belle had been awakened by Russell, well before dawn, telling her to put on the simple, white dress in his hand. He'd taken her up through the highest floors in the elevator, looking decidedly nervous, and then led her out onto the roof.

At first, she'd thought he was doing something wrong, but then the hovercraft had appeared in the lilac distance, coming to carry them off.

His red moustache had twitched and he'd given her a sideways glance, before saying, "You're the first of the tributes to go. Gold's orders. He wants you to be perfect."

She'd then realised why Russell had seemed so cagey: Gold had threatened him. She had wanted to baulk at the thought of Gold being so aggressive and – judging from Russell's nervousness – terrifying, but she knows it was just his way of getting Russell to do a perfect job.

And now, here she is, being shepherded down underground corridors, after being dropped down on the ladder from the hovercraft, into an unknown location.

The ride itself had been smooth, but the blacked-out windows had only tightened Belle's wire-like nerves, even though the breakfast she and Russell had been given was nothing short of spectacular. She'll think back on the banquet when she's starving in the arena, she's sure.

She absently scratches the crook of her elbow as she turns a final corner and lets Russell lead her into a wide, shining room full of all sorts of machines and gadgets. The tracker that one of the assistants injected into her arm is making her skin itch and her fingertips feel like they're vibrating.

Russell proceeds to take his time brushing out Belle's hair and curling it with some hot, metal clamps that feel as if they're two millimetres from searing her skin.

"They'll stay this way for a while," he informs her, moustache twitching as he liberally applies some kind of pinkish cream to her hair and continues his curling. "Just keep your hair up, out of reach. I've seen too many tributes get caught out that way."

She thinks of an old replay of a girl from District 5 who had long, blonde locks, and Belle remembers her death, the victor's hand locked in her hair, a sword at her throat.

"Pretty, but safe," Russell murmurs, seemingly to himself.

He takes her soft and shiny curls and fashions them into a bun, with loose and twisted locks framing her face. Next is her skin, which he washes and waxes and moisturises to perfection, and then her make-up.

Russell smoothes a red balm on her lips which he tells her will keep them red for days, and runs a cold, black pencil around her eyes which he says will lengthen and blacken her eyelashes. Belle is simply glad that he isn't tattooing it all on.

By the time they are finished, it is almost time to get on the foreboding metal plate on the other side of the room, where Belle has refused to look up until now.

The circular podium stands a foot high, with brushed steel beckoning for her to step up on it and her district's number emblazoned across the centre. Belle knows she will be the only tribute to set foot on that particular plate, and it fills her with some odd sort of confidence.

No one has set foot on that podium and lost – it is a clean slate, waiting for her story to be written, and she has a remarkably steady pen-hand at this particular moment.

A knock at the door announces the arrival of her outfit – the same one that all the other tributes will be wearing.

Brown and leathery, she isn't sure what she's looking at, at first, but it becomes clear as Russell takes the outfit from the man in the white coat. She's to wear a dark brown vest, with leather-like trousers, jacket, and long, laced boots of the same colour.

"Everything's brown." Russell frowns. "No idea what it could be this year. Warm, durable and water-proof, that's all I know."

Belle doesn't question his helpfulness – she knows it's down to Gold.

She dresses with the aid of Russell, and all too soon she is ready to step onto that plate across the room. Russell tries to help her there, as if she is an invalid, but she shakes him off as politely as possible. He steps back with a strange sort of huff and watches her take a long and even breath.

All sorts of things rush through her mind – thoughts of Red and Gold, Saph and Snow, and the stranger with the covers peeled back on his bed, waiting for her.

She steps onto the podium, heart pounding – _thudding_ in her ears – and it's a moment before she realises that it isn't her heart sounding, but a countdown. Russell suddenly rushes forward after her, clenched fist outstretched.

"Oh! This is for you. It's been checked."

The thrumming noise echoing in the room seems to pick up speed, and Belle only has a moment to snatch the glittering object from Russell's hand before a sleek, glass case lowers around her, encircling her and dooming Belle to her fate.

Belle glances down at the thing in her palm, a soft smile passing across her features as she does. It's a delicate, red rose – a _badge_, the size of a thumbnail – and she knows it is from Gold, to remind her of who she is in the Games, to keep her mind clear and her path set. She affixes it to the inside of her jacket collar.

She looks up to see Russell, hands behind his back and red moustache quirked, and he gives her a thick-fingered wave before she is suddenly and _totally_ consumed by darkness.

Belle jerks, legs bending at the knee for a moment as she reaffirms her footing, before she realises the container feels like it's _rising_. She's going up, up into the arena, and it's barely a few moments of heavy breathing in the dark before light washes over her once more.

Instantly, she's wet, blinking up at a dark and stormy sky from which the rain is pouring. She glances down, eyes adjusting, to see nothing but mud and mist across the ground. Her hair plasters itself against her pale cheeks, and she looks between the dark, hanging strands to see the other podiums around her.

The other tributes are just as confused and miserable-looking, all shaking from the rain and the creeping cold, and then, suddenly, Claudius Templesmith's familiar voice resounds around them.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the seventy-second Hunger Games begin!"

For a moment, there is absolutely no sound.

The rain doesn't make a noise as it pelts the thick, rich mud, and the cold wind doesn't howl. The tributes merely stand, waiting for the signal to _run_.

And then she spots it, off in the distance – the Cornucopia. It's vast but hazy due to the rain, and Belle's unsure if anyone's truly spotted it yet. She has got a quick eye after all.

She has thirty seconds to decide whether or not to take Gold's advice and beat it as fast as possible in the opposite direction to the bloodbath...or go in. Around her she notices sizeable lumps in the mud, hidden parcels of essential items and tools she can use, but she knows, equally, that the best supplies lie in the heart of the Cornucopia.

She's quick, _light_, and she knows at this particular moment that Gold is standing and watching her on some screen in the Capitol, knuckles white about the gilded handle of his cane, waiting for her to bolt to safety.

He's to be disappointed.

Belle crouches slightly, leaning forwards, hands ready, and when the infamous gong rings out barely a moment later, she runs, straight towards the large, curling horn-shape in the immediate distance.

The mud is thick, but she's quicker than its suction is strong. She slips, trying to avoid rocks and mud-caked parcels, but she stays on her feet, moving forward ever faster, the slippery ground allowing her a fair amount of speed.

As Belle moves, she hears screams, gurgles, yells, but she won't look back. The dark horn looms ahead, and she only has eyes for what she needs. Cannons don't sound around her, but she knows that the other tributes are dropping like flies.

If the Gamemakers did fire the cannons during the bloodbath, the guns would all be singing right now.

She hears a battle cry somewhere behind her, but then she's there, sliding into the mouth of the great, driftwood-like structure of the Cornucopia. It's dark inside, but she can see there are battered, wooden crates around her.

The adrenaline in her veins forces her forward, and she picks up the closest leather pack she can carry, slipping it over her shoulder. The weapons hanging from the frames on the walls call to her, and she pockets a knife, before hefting a medium-sized axe in her hand and beating it the way she came.

The heavy rain outside blinds her for a moment, but it works to her advantage as she pushes through the curtain of water and narrowly misses a speeding boy, who, thankfully, remains unaware of her presence. Slipping, she pushes on, bolting around the Cornucopia and out across the misty, muddy ground.

Screams echo behind her, chilling her blood but urging her on, and she knows she'll hear them again in her nightmares.

* * *

**Author's note**: An early post for the first day of 2013! Happy New Year! And thank you for all your reviews and support.


	6. Seven Devils

_**The Birds They Put In Cages**_

– _**Chapter 6 –**_

* * *

'_I'm gonna raise the stakes,_

_I'm gonna smoke you out...'_

–_Florence and the Machine_

* * *

Belle runs until she can't run any more.

The strange, wet wasteland goes on forever in fields of mud and rocks, with, seemingly, no end and no beginning. Occasionally there's a stripped and twig-like tree, but there seems to be hardly any other vegetation, and certainly no life-forms.

The mist stretches on, the rain freezing her skin until she feels like stone, but her legs still move, even if she can't pound her feet against the slippery, sucking ground any more like she's done for the past hour, give or take.

She wonders, between panting breaths and muffled curses, if Gold is watching her now, and what he would tell her if he could.

His deep and gravelly brogue comes to mind, calling her "_sweetheart_" and whispering things between the painful, shard-like raindrops, telling her to find shelter and sustenance.

The pack on her back weighs her down and the axe in her hand even more so, but she can't bring herself to drop either of them. She can't open the pack, for fear of soaking and rendering any contents inside completely useless, and so she just hopes that whatever is in it is worth the struggle she's currently facing.

Her muscles are on fire beneath her deathly-cold skin, from the effort of moving through the mud, and she's covered in thick, dark dirt. She now knows why the outfit is entirely brown, though, she thinks, they _really_ needn't have bothered with the camouflage.

Belle stifles a wheeze, feeling like she could just drop into the mud and let one of the other tributes find her, but her dogged determination outweighs her current pain.

She treks on, and on – for what feels like _hours_ – before a shadowy, mirage-like shape slowly begins to appear in the gloomy distance. The rain shields the large object's true form until she's practically in front of it, breathless and ready to drop.

It's a house.

For the longest of moments, Belle can only stand and stare at the tall, wooden structure. It looks like some kind of abandoned village house, all dark wood and glass windows, deserted and in the middle of nowhere.

She looks about, seeing nothing else like it, and decides to stick it out. After all, how likely is it that anyone else will come the exact same way as her?

Belle circles the two-storey building until she comes across a high step up to a porch. The boards squeak beneath her weight, but her focus is entirely consumed by being under the shelter and the sudden lack of water pummelling every inch of her body. It is pure relief.

Her heavy, mud-caked boots make her feel like stone is encasing her feet, but still she drags herself to the windowless, wooden door of the house. She pushes against it with her tired and aching shoulder, and it opens slowly, in one short scrape.

She kicks it a couple of times, opening the stubborn door a few more tough inches, before she can slip inside the house.

The place is practically barren. The air is stale, smelling of wood and damp, but it's fairly dry-looking and the long room the door opens into has a stone fireplace. Not that she'll light it, obviously.

Peering down the empty room, she spies one other door to a space made simply to house the set of wooden stairs inside.

Though the gusting outside is practically soundless, from inside the house the cracks in the wood make soft whining noises with the force of the wind. The sound of the rain is unmistakable against the thinly-tiled roof.

Belle shoves the front door shut behind her, throwing herself against it heavily after deeming the place safe enough, before lifting her eyes heavenwards. She keeps her gaze on the wooden ceiling, ears primed for danger, as she takes soft and fumbling strides to the stairs.

Though her body is screaming and her fingers are purpled from cold, she looks upstairs. The creaking steps take her to the first floor, which boasts another, smaller fireplace and a couple of bales of straw in the corner. A ladder rests horizontally against the wall, and, upon glancing up, Belle notices an open hatch into the ceiling.

Putting down her pack and axe, she doggedly hauls the ladder up with a groan and sets it against the high wall underneath the hole. Rung by rung, she rises, cursing, before putting her head into the total darkness of the alien attic space.

The floorboards are gapped enough to let in light from the windows in the room below, as the attic has none itself, and thick beams criss-cross the floor, creating solid and stable rafters. There is nothing else to see but shadows and the stone chimneys from the fireplaces.

Belle knows the smart thing is to stay up here, in case of company.

She descends on the sturdy ladder, until her feet touch the floorboards of the first floor once more, before sucking her thumb into her mouth and removing an acquired splinter with her teeth.

The windows frame the stormy sky outside, and she eyes the scene as she sits at the bottom of the ladder and removes her jacket and boots. It's tough going, but the material doesn't stick like real leather might have, and she's all too happy about it.

She pushes her dripping hair out of her face, before glancing down at her trousers. Belle thinks of the people watching and the hidden cameras there must be in the house, but decides that modesty is not something she can afford when it comes to her health, which must be taking one hell of a knock right now.

Gripping the buttons of her fly between thumb and forefinger, she pops them from their holes and lies back to pull the trousers off. Her underwear is courtesy of Russell rather than the Gamemakers, and the thin, black material doesn't leave much to the imagination.

Belle tugs her fingers through her hair, before throwing it back into a sloppy knot with the band Russell originally used, leaving her wet curls to do what they will and her clothes lying across the floor.

The pack calls to her.

Cross-legged, she pulls the cold, leathery bag towards her and takes the little, metal zip in hand. The first thing that spills out as she unzips the backpack is a dry box of matches. Feeling hopeful, she continues looking through it and finds a few small candles, a blanket-like bag to sleep in, an empty water canteen, a roll of bandages, a few thick packets of dried food, and a strange pair of black spectacles.

Belle takes the glasses in hand, frowning, wondering why anyone might need _these_ to survive. The round lenses give off a strange gleam, and they feel waxy to the touch like they are made out of soft plastic.

Slowly, she brings them up to her face. She can see nothing through them at all, only darkness – _useless_ – but she still tucks them safely back in the bag.

With the pack, as well as the axe and the knife, she has a nice haul of things to see her safely through the Games, but hopefully Gold will still come through with a list of sponsors when she needs them.

Belle gives a heavy sigh and lifts her gaze to the window across from her. The sky is steadily darkening, indicating that the afternoon has passed. It will be dark soon, and she doesn't want to be caught out by any intruders.

A cannon shot suddenly rings out, causing Belle to start.

Loud and echoing, the noise resounds, _booming_ across the muddy plains. More shots follow it. The living tributes must have finally moved on from the Cornucopia long enough for a hovercraft to collect the dead and for the Gamemakers to do a headcount.

Belle counts the shots – _one, two, three, four, five_... The firing goes on and on, but the total, once a final shuddering _boom_ rings out, adds up to sixteen.

_Sixteen_.

She sits, still as stone, rapidly trying to think if she has ever seen or heard of a Games where the tribute count dwindles to _eight_ on the very first day. She can't think of a time. She's seen some Hunger Games last days, some weeks, but she has never known so many to die at the bloodbath.

There have been poorly-designed arenas before, with nearly all tributes dying in the first week of nothing more sinister than dehydration, but Belle can't help but think that this particularly high and immediate mortality rate is by _design_. She can just imagine the Capitol going wild for all the unexpected extra carnage.

Belle wonders which tributes are left. She'll know soon enough.

Seeing the clouds beginning to turn an even deeper grey, rushing towards black, Belle hauls her aching body off of the floor. She gathers her clothes, pack, and weapons. She ignores her pale, bare legs and the thought that Capitol citizens must be practically salivating over them back in the city, and liberally smears the mud she's left behind on the floorboards so there are no discernible prints.

Hoisting the bag over her shoulder, along with her clothes, she takes the axe in her hand and climbs the ladder to the top in one go. She throws aside her acquired goods, before painfully beginning to haul up the ladder. The roof is high and angled enough to allow it, and she pulls the ladder up with her.

Feeling about in the gloom, she finds a door to the hatch. She snaps it shut and sits back on her heels, preparing herself for her first night in the arena.

But then, with so many already dead, how many more nights will there be?

* * *

At some point during the night, she kicks herself out of her sleeping bag. When she wakes the light filtering through the floorboards illuminates her position, which is curled in one corner of the attic with the bag tangled about her feet.

Her legs cramp as she stretches them and she stifles a pained groan. The air is cool, the rain is heavy against the roof, and the light is too weak for it to be any later than early morning. She manages to pull herself upright enough to sit up. Her nose twitches.

She can smell smoke.

* * *

Belle had been too tired to do anything but curl up and go to sleep last night, and so she isn't surprised that she had been so deeply involved in her forgotten dreams that she hadn't noticed the tribute creeping into the house and sleeping on the floor beneath her.

She hadn't been able to stay awake to see the faces of the dead either, and she had been planning on watching for them through a little notch in the wood she'd found earlier, in the wall next to her sleeping place.

She berates herself as the worst competitor ever. She's sure Gold is on the verge of tearing his hair out over her.

But Belle's alert _now_, and ready.

She's ready to do something about the interloper who has stupidly lit a fire in the hearth.

She isn't strong enough to take on the wastelands again just yet, but perhaps with the passing of another night the other tribute will leave, giving Belle a chance to make her escape then.

Pressing her face to the floorboards and peering through a gap there, she can see that the tribute below is small, tucked up in a bed of straw, with a mop of unruly dark curls. She thinks it might be the boy from District 7 – the one with the surprising score of six – but she isn't sure.

Belle sits back and pushes her hand through her crushed curls, inwardly cursing herself for being so stupid as to let herself get trapped. She glances at the hole in the wall to her right, squinting and spying rain and clouds and mist and mud.

Her throat suddenly clenches, and she realises she's dying for a drink, as well as the toilet. The situation hits her hard.

She can scrape together an idea or two – maybe pry at a board or the roof to catch some rain water somehow, and maybe just urinate in the corner like an animal – but that's all. She'll have to keep so quiet, so contained...

And then it comes to her, slowly and then all at once, listening to the cheery fire crackle in the hearth below the attic.

The tribute is asleep, just lying there, vulnerable, practically _begging_ to be killed by a Career. Or her.

She could do it. She has a knife, and an axe. She has the advantage of surprise as well. She could do it...

But the person lying down there, sleeping and dreaming, is a _child_, and has a _life_. Can she truly take that from them? Can she kill someone in cold blood, calculated and _creeping_?

No.

Killing a person is a lot different to hitting a human-shaped practise target, and she can't do it. Not like this. Not him.

She'll wait, gather her strength, pee in the corner if she has to, and then she'll sneak out under the cover of darkness when the tribute is safely asleep once more. Someone else can see to their demise.

* * *

It's dark, close to morning, and the tribute below has finally stopped his incessant pacing and murmuring, going back to his bed of straw.

Belle has been waiting all day. She has eaten into a portion of her dried food supply to gather her strength, has dressed herself again, and has pried a bit of the roof loose to gather some rainwater in her canteen.

The view she'd seen earlier, through the slanted tiles as the sun had set, had afforded her the scenery she had been unable to see last night. It seems when the sun goes down, the clouds vanish.

Stars twinkle brightly in the sky, reflected in the day's rain, and the horizon is crystal clear. She'd also found out what the black spectacles she's acquired are for, after a little accidental research – they give the wearer _night vision_, all in bright colours, just as if it were day. Belle wonders if the tribute below knows there are other houses, just over the ups and downs of the wasteland, every which way. They're far between, but visible.

He had started the fire an hour or so ago, and it's still burning brightly in the hearth now as he sleeps his cares away. She has no idea how he got that six in training, but it's her guess that he's lost whatever skills he had, because even she, through the little hole in the roof, can see the sky clouding with smoke from the chimney.

Belle slings on her pack – the head of her axe tucked inside the bag, so the handle juts out of the top – and takes her knife in hand. Slowly, _quietly_, with painstaking care, she moves across the attic space and pulls open the door to the hatch.

The easy part is over. Now it is time to put the ladder back down.

Fighting against the instinct to screw her eyes shut in fear, Belle lifts the ladder from its resting place and slides it down, out through the hatch. Sweat beads on her forehead–

Laughing. She can hear laughing. And yelling. And suddenly the house _shakes_ with the force of the front door being kicked open.

"Who's in here, then?" A clear voice croons from downstairs, and she recognises it as Grand's.

The tribute below shoots out of his bed, wide-eyed and terrified, and Belle only has a split-second to haul the end of the ladder back into the attic before the boy twists and turns, to and fro, looking for an exit.

She closes the hatch and waits.

Heavy footfalls ring out through the house. There's more than one Career on their way, and she can't help but watch the other tribute's nightmare unfold.

"Shouldn't have lit a fire," she whispers to him, brow creased in pain, knowing he can't hear her.

The boy doesn't have any time to make an escape. Grand, Paige, and Reel step into the room, muddy and smiling, their weapons of choice raised.

"Not too bright, are you?" Grand teases him as the boy trembles. "I could see that smoke a mile off."

Paige flicks her long, red braid over her shoulder and presses her slim hand to Grand's muscular arm. "I thought we were going to catch the girl."

Belle wonders if they're talking about her.

"_Come on_," Grand drawls, flashing his teeth in a grin. "Might as well take out the competition that presents itself while we chase down sweet little Avalon."

Belle's eyebrows shoot into her hairline – _Avalon_?

Reel closes in on the boy, palming a hunting knife. He is nothing like the child that had stepped up onto the stage at the Reaping, stifling his tears. Before he can do anything, though, two clear cannon shots ring out across the wilderness.

Grand seems to tense from what Belle can see through the floorboards. Paige removes her hand from him with a jolt.

"That'll be Vanish and Harp. The little _bitch_."

Grand says it with such venom that it chills Belle to her core. Without hesitation, he hefts his shining short sword in hand, mouth twisted in silent rage, and buries the weapon in Reel's back.

Belle clamps her hand over her mouth to stop her loud cry as Reel falls, bodily, atop the other tribute. The boy keens and pushes at Reel's twitching body, kicking himself out from underneath Belle's dying counterpart.

She watches Reel slump into the mussed straw, as, slowly, the hay turns a deep red. He coughs once, his hand clenching the knife in his palm, and then all is quiet.

Paige says nothing. Grand begins to pant heavily.

It is a moment before the tributes below wake from their spell, but when they do there is screaming and crying and hot sprays of blood that paint the walls and the ceiling. Grand massacres the boy from District 7, and Paige stands in the doorway, her knife loose in her grip and her jaw clenched tightly as she watches.

Belle silently urges the girl to just _run_, to cut her losses and go rogue from the Careers. There's only Paige and Grand left of their exclusive group now anyway, if Vanish and Harp are truly dead by Avalon's hand.

Grand stands there in his dark, blood-spattered leather, chest heaving, his hands and neck covered with bloody handprints from the other boy's frantic death throes. His green eyes are no longer glinting. They are dark and dull and _terrifying_.

Paige begins to shake. "Grand, please. I...I _love_ you."

Belle shuts her eyes, pinching them closed with her cold and shaking fingers. What had the girl expected? Paige can't truly love Grand, can she? But then Belle had been adamant about remaining aloof during training, and no one else had wanted to know her – she must have missed the touches, the stares, the things people did when they were in love. But Grand's a killing machine, built for power and strength, not affection, and Paige's weakness is his strength. He is a killer, and there is only ever one Victor.

Belle tries to drown out Paige's screams with her hands over her ears and her own thoughts, telling herself that it's not happening, but her eyes open of their own accord, and she sees Grand's sword slit Paige's pale throat as he pins her to the floor.

Her blood sprays, thick and wet, across his face, but he says nothing. He leaves her there to bleed out across the floorboards, making bloody tracks as he pulls himself up and leaves the way the three of them had come.

Belle knows she needs to leave before Grand becomes suspicious as to why a hovercraft won't come by to collect the bodies, with her so near. She takes a breath and reopens the hatch.

Without care, she lifts the ladder and pushes it out through the hole, scraping it noisily against the wall and letting it make a hard _thud_ as it hits the floor. She climbs down with shaking knees and pale knuckles, and when she turns to look at the destruction inside the room, she realises that Paige is not yet dead.

Belle approaches Paige's twitching limbs and bloody face with a churning stomach, trying to quash her nausea and do the _right thing_, as if she knows what that is anymore.

She slips her axe out of her pack, looking down at the acrobatic girl from District 2.

Paige stares back, unblinking, choking on her own blood, dying like no one should. Belle hefts her axe, hands apart, and forces herself to keep her eyes open as she swings. She almost thinks the other girl looks grateful just before her head separates from her body.

The ensuing carnage is unbelievable as Paige's head rolls across the floor. Belle can contain herself no longer and turns to vomit the few mouthfuls of dried fruit and meat she ate earlier.

Coughing, she stumbles from the room, bloody axe in hand. Above the roar of the blood rushing in her ears, she can hear an incoming hovercraft.

Belle half-trips down the stairs and makes for the open front door across the room in a dizzy stupor. All she can see in her mind's eye is Paige's lifeless face twirling across the floor.

The night air is cool on her face, the mud thick beneath her feet once she steps off of the porch, and, somehow, she knows that the Games are coming to a close.

Only three tributes remain, and Belle is planning on chasing after one of them.

A hovercraft approaches, and as Belle turns she sees long pincer-like arms unfolding and descending from a hatch to literally rip the roof off of the house, like the lid of a jar. The building collapses in the mud like a deck of cards.

The bodies are removed before her very eyes by men in white coats, descending from a ladder. Three shots fire.

Belle turns to blindly stumble after Grand, pulling her pack off of her shoulder to reach in and find the glasses. Her fingertips find the cool, waxy lenses, and she pulls them out by the frame. She unfolds them and puts them on with stupid and fumbling fingers.

Instantly, the night is transformed. The mud is brown instead of black, the sky is powder blue instead of navy, and she can practically see for miles.

Dotted around her on the horizon are some of the houses she'd seen earlier from her confinement, but she hadn't been able to recognise their state. Some of the ones she can see the best are definitely wrecked, whether by wind and rain or the tributes' doing. Belle suspects the Careers, but she isn't sure. It's a lot of work, after all.

She wonders if Grand has rested at all, and what his vendetta is against Avalon, except from trying to win the Games in record time.

Spinning on the spot, ignoring her rising nausea, Belle finally spots him. He's running a few dozen yards ahead of her, straight towards a tall – possibly stone – house in the distance. The silhouette of a hovercraft is still visible on the horizon, leaving with its cargo, most likely Harp and Vanish.

He yells, his voice echoing across the wilderness. "_WHERE ARE YOU?_"

Belle gives chase, slipping once or twice, eyes fixed on the boy screaming at the unassuming building ahead of her. Suddenly, he darts right, as if he's spotted something, and Belle can just make out a small figure, bolting across the muddy plains.

"_Avalon_."

Saph had been right: the little girl is trouble.

Belle's legs push faster, pumping harder, as she follows Grand out over the open stretch of ground, towards a high-rising tower of rocky pillars and crumbling parapets of stone.

She wants to stop, wants to question how the _hell_ she didn't see it earlier, but she _knows_ that this small mountain has just risen from the mud – that it _wasn't_ there earlier – and that _this_ is the Gamemakers grand finale.

Far ahead of her, Avalon's figure disappears between two pillars, moving on, up the incline of stone, getting lost in the cracks and alcoves created by the dangerous-looking rock features. Grand disappears after her. Belle just hopes that it is herself who comes out of the place alive.

She adjusts her glasses, still running hard and fast as the tower looms above her, and in she goes.


	7. She's Thunderstorms

_**The Birds They Put In Cages**_

– _**Chapter 7 –**_

* * *

'_She came and substituted the peace and quiet,_

_For acrobatic blood flow concertina,_

_Cheating heartbeat, rapid fire...'_

–_Arctic Monkeys_

* * *

**Author's note**: To everyone concerned with the length of time that Belle's Hunger Games actually last – this is where my muse took me, and I hope you still enjoy this particular part of the ride, even if it's a little short. Thank you, again, for all your continued support!

* * *

The passageways carved into the rock are dark, even with the night vision spectacles on, and the skyward-reaching, spiky pillars of stone around Belle are damp and cool – slippery to the touch – presumably from their time beneath the mud, before their sudden emergence.

Though she has slowed somewhat from her earlier frantic pace across the mud-plains, she's still giving chase. She can hear Grand somewhere ahead of her, _screaming_ for Avalon to show herself.

If, Belle thinks, the little girl is as smart as she seems – judging by her kills – then Avalon will get to higher ground and try to escape over the perilous ledges and chasms the upper rocks seem to boast. Avalon _could_ outmanoeuvre Grand, with her speed and stature, but Belle knows that he is fast and deadly and powerful, not to mention insane.

Thick, dark moss laces the damp, crumbling walls around her, and as she makes the twists and turns required, she feels its pungent scent make her dizzy. She's hungry, and tired, and still in the aftermath of killing someone, but the Games must be finished.

There must be a victor.

Ahead of her, a scream is issued, and it is not Grand's.

The high-pitched tone pierces Belle's ears until she thinks they might bleed. Her feet slip against the rock in her sudden disorientation, and she lands on her outstretched hands as she falls, grazing her palms.

Another scream. She looks up.

Just past another short corridor of moss and slime and disintegrating stone, she can see a plinth-like formation, rising up high towards the bright sky.

On it is Avalon, spread across the large, flat stone like a sacrifice beneath Grand's sword. He turns his head and spits, sending saliva sailing towards Belle, letting it splatter against a rock wall ahead of her before turning back to his trapped tribute. He can't see Belle.

Glancing over her glasses, she sees how dark it really is, as black as pitch in her hiding place and only a little better up ahead. There is no moon, just starlight.

Avalon chokes beneath Grand's hard grip around her throat, her wide eyes bulging as he _squeezes_.

"You just couldn't let us win," he snarls, eyes alight and crazed. "The one thing I could do to honour my district and the Capitol and you just couldn't let me do it. Are you _fucking happy_?"

He lets go of her red and raw-looking throat enough for her to scream again, before pressing the tip of his sword to her flat and heaving chest and wrapping his hand around her neck again.

Belle knows that Avalon needs to die for her to survive. There is only one who can win, and as Grand seems to be doing better than the little girl, it is up to Belle to take care of the monster.

She needs the high-ground. Grand is too tall to take him on with her axe, and she doesn't think that, with all the adrenaline in his body, he'll go down fast enough if she uses the knife.

Belle circles the dais, slipping down partitions in the rock so she can try and tackle the plinth. With the right angle, it will be possible. She just has to find it.

Grand continues with his guttural snarling. "You need to die, and I'll be the one to do it. F-for _honour_, for _glory_, and when I'm finished with you, I'll go and find that rose and I'll _fuck _her. And then I'll kill her, too. And then I will _win_."

Belle's heart hammers relentlessly in her chest, her blood pounding in her ears at his words, his disgusting _plan_, and the grandiose nature of his speech. Grand has been put up to personally take Avalon out – that much is obvious to Belle – but by who, she doesn't know.

She can guess, though.

Suddenly, Belle finds it, the perfect spot – a small incline straight up to the dais, opposite Grand. She crouches, turning the axe in her hands, which is still stained and sticky from Paige's beheading. She resists the urge to vomit again.

"One more. Just one more," she tells herself, barely a whisper.

Just Grand, and then she's free, she's a _Victor_.

She can't imagine the things they're seeing in the Capitol, can't imagine how _wild_ the citizens are in the face of the fastest Hunger Games in the history of the barbaric sport. She can't imagine Gold, his hope and terror for the outcome – will he pray for her? Well, Belle's praying for herself in any case.

Grand's voice lowers to a slow murmur, soft and dark and terrifying, and Belle can _just_ about hear his words. "Night-night."

Avalon squeals beneath Grand's choking grasp as he plunges his sword into her to the hilt, his jaw clenched and his face coloured with gory victory. The girl flails and arches against the larger tribute, struggling and choking for endless moments, before her limbs give out and she falls, lax, to the flat, dark stone. A cough, and her blood pools and runs over the edge of the altar-like plinth, dripping crimson, trailing its way downhill towards Belle.

Her moment has arrived.

Belle feels the cool press of her rose pin against her neck, and she knows who she has to be in this moment. Not Belle, not Clara, not the Fireweed – just _The Rose_.

Her muscles tense. She bolts.

Sprinting up the slope, it only takes a moment for her to reach the plinth and launch herself upon it from a small outcropping. Grand's head snaps up just as Belle raises her axe and brings it down with a solid and final _thwack_.

She knows she will never forget the way the sharp, shining metal embeds itself into Grand's skull, or the way his cranium cracks in two and spurts blood, opening his head enough for her to see his fleshy, pale brain.

She's too tense, too shaken, too numb to not watch, as he staggers, falling forwards and backwards, axe pulling from his head, before crumpling in a bronzed heap. The glasses afford her the unnecessary sight of his eyes, still bright and rolling around in their sockets, trying to find her.

Ever so slowly, he slips down from the very precarious top of the mountainous hill, and over the edge, somewhere she can't see.

Beneath Belle, Avalon's body slips too – now without Grand's considerable bulk pinning her down – bringing her off of the plinth, following with a sickening _smack_ of her face hitting the jagged stones beneath.

There's a hush, as if Belle can hear the quiet that must certainly be pervading the Capitol at this very moment, and then, before she can come to terms with the fact that she's _won_, Claudius Templesmith's voice rings out, loud and clear.

District 8's badge glitters in the sky. The needle and cotton reel shine brightly against the blue.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present Clarabelle Rosebay, Victor of the Seventy-second Hunger Games – Tribute of District Eight!"

* * *

Belle sits behind a glass partition like an animal, but, she supposes, that's what she is to them, the people on the hovercraft taking her back to the Capitol, not to mention the people in the districts.

She is the bloodstained victor responsible for killing a son, perhaps a brother, and removing the head from someone else's daughter or sister. In becoming Victor, she has become something _other_.

There is justice in all the districts, and killers always receive a death sentence. Victors are killers, but lawful ones, ones to be revered by some and avoided by others. She knows now why her father told her stories about Gold, why he told her to stay away and that he wasn't to be trusted, because Gold is a contradiction to their laws and morals. He has killed and he _lives_, and Belle understands that fear of him now, because he is a beast, created by the Capitol, to remind the districts of its power. The Capitol will keep everyone safe, the monsters at bay, except for one, every year, a wolf among the sheep, something to fear and hate.

Now there are two beasts in District 8.

Belle ignores the blood shining on her leathers, the dry vomit staining the toe of her boot, and instead clutches her rose pin in her hand, squeezing it so hard it makes her grazed palms bleed anew.

She reminds herself that she has won, that she's _alive_, and that she has Gold waiting for her. She just needs to be The Rose a little longer, before she can hide with Gold in the Village and discover the intricate threads of this tangle between them. She thinks of how far they've come, pressured by time and fate, but now they have all the time in the world.

Belle almost jumps when the partition is removed and she is instructed to stand to be cleansed. The small, mousy-haired woman in a white coat smiles, flashing all-silver teeth, and tells her that they will be landing soon and _congratulations_.

Belle has never received this sentiment from someone before. Ever.

The woman undresses her, directs her into a shower cubicle and has her wash, and Belle realises that the reason they kept her behind the glass was because they wanted to see if she was safe. To see if she was _sane_.

She's more resigned than anything, and she's yearning to see Gold, that flash of his gilded tooth when he smiles and that softness in his eyes when they're alone.

Even now, the woman with the silver smile looks at her with a thin sliver of wariness, obvious in her watchful gaze. It makes Belle's skin crawl, longing for a time when she won't have to do these things in front of an audience.

She's fed and watered, and half-watched when she makes use of the toilet with a gratefulness she has never known for a simple comfort in all her life. She is redressed in a flattering, navy frock, her injuries tended to until nothing but smooth skin remains, and her cosmetics reapplied. She is made fresh-looking, and polished, and beautiful, as if she hasn't just stepped over dead bodies to take her ride back to the capital city of their country.

A few people in white coats, running hither and thither, look at her and whisper and smile to each other, and some offer her food and wine. Wine, like she has the stomach for anything stronger than water at the moment. But she can understand. She understands why some victors accept the offer, and how easy it is to lift a glass and drown all sorrows.

She's too adamant in her refusal. The whispers gain an edge around her, and she wonders if someone is preparing a syringe or a club of some sort, should she turn feral.

Belle takes a breath and merely sits, waiting, listening to the bustle around her and clutching her badge. The ride feels shorter than it had going into the arena, and as she is escorted off, down the ladder, she is thrown into internal tumult.

She stands on the top of the Training Centre again, looking out over the Capitol at night, the air cool and the buildings bright. There is singing in the streets, and a man waiting for her at the closed elevator doors across the roof.

For a moment, as the hovercraft takes off behind her, she thinks he's a mirage. His long, black coat flaps noisily in the wind, and his eyes – those dark, whisky-brown orbs – are so _soft_ as he watches her from a distance.

She notices his red tie is loose, his black shirt is creased, and his wavy hair is ruffled. His eyes are ringed and she can see stubble across his jaw. His mouth parts, but no words escape.

Belle's fist clenches around the rose badge, despising its presence at this moment, feeling it in her palm like some lead weight she must now carry with her, always a part of her.

And then he speaks. "_Belle_..."

Her feet carry her towards him, unimpeded, hitching and tripping a little in her sudden haste. She stops just before him, her breath coming heavily, and can't help but just reaching out to _touch_. A fingertip, nothing more, just the pad of her index finger to the gold clip on his tie.

A sob escapes her.

There's a flurry of movement between them. Gold throws down his cane carelessly, the gold top hitting the hard stone with a crack that makes her flinch, and throws his arms about her. His coat envelops her, encasing her in warmth atop the chilly roof, and her hands snake beneath his outer-shell, finding silken material and warm flesh. So _real_.

He buries his face in her neck, his lips a warm flame against her pulse, mouthing something against her skin. Belle inhales thickly, warding off her tears, finding comfort in the one person that, not so long ago, she never would have expected to.

His hands touch her face, her back, her hair, tangling in her fresh curls, and she soaks in his attention, his affection, and his scent. Belle grips the back of his shirt, fisting it underneath his coat, pulling him closer, her lips at the cool lobe of his ear.

"Gold–"

"Call me Rum."

His interruption is soft, whispered, and he pulls back to look her in the eye when she stays quiet. Her confusion is evident. His face softens.

"It's my first name, sweetheart. Short for Rumford."

It's so lovely to be given something so simple, something that she can see from his face no one else has the right to, and she's so overwhelmed. She pulls him close, whispers his name in his ear, lets him shudder against her and hold her more tightly, and it's true bliss.

"I don't know how some of us stay in there for weeks," she murmurs finally, and Gold kisses her ear.

"I know, Belle. I know."

They remain there for a while, embracing, ignoring the city with all its lights and all its noise, and just...being.

"I don't know how to make this work," Belle confesses, and Gold echoes her sentiment.

"Neither do I, but I know I want to." His lilting brogue deepens. "We'll go one step at a time, Fireweed. We'll take the slow train out of here, and then I'll ask your father for his blessing."

This truly surprises her, and, pulling back from their embrace to stare at him, she raises her eyebrows at him. "My father?"

"Of course." Gold pushes a wayward curl behind her ear, his bare hands warm and his touch tender. "But we don't have to make it official, if you don't want to."

Belle gazes at him for a moment, this older man who she feels so much for and who she knows feels so much for her in return, and she wonders how her father would react. But then, thinking of her father, Maurice, and of his absence, his pre-emptive mourning and no goodbye for her, his only daughter, Belle realises that she'd rather leave him be.

Gold's gentle touch to her cheek brings her out of her fog. "Belle?"

She bites her lip, delaying her response, before giving into his tender touch. "He never said goodbye, Rum. He never said I could do it, never told me to be brave, and I don't think he's going to even want to _look_ at me after this. If you want someone's blessing, ask Red – she cares about me more than anyone."

His brow is pained for a moment. "Whatever you want, sweetheart. Like I said, one step at a time."

Belle smiles, slow and sly, her father forgotten, the only man on her mind being the one in her arms.

"How can I want you so much?" She murmurs, eyes chasing about his face, from his darkened eyes to his tongue darting across his lips. "It's so...unlikely."

"The Rose and the Monster?" He mutters – a _tease_ – lips moving to brush hers in a sweet, soft sweep.

"Monster?"

"That's what they call me at home, dear," he tells her. "The Monster. The Babe-Stealer. The Spinner of Words. The _Dealer_."

Belle's lips twitch, curling in a grin. "What else will they call me?"

"You're the Bloody Rose of the Wastelands, sweetheart, or didn't you know?"

Her laughter eases her spirits, lifting them high, letting them free for a shining moment, here, with him. Only him.

"The Rose and the Monster," she mimics, pulling him close. "Definitely unlikely."

Her voice, so soft, is carried off on the wind as his eyes bore into hers and his lips seek her out, gentle and teasing. But there is no room for games, not now, not tonight, because there is only space for his hand in her curls, his other cinched about her waist, as she clutches at him, her mouth suddenly desperate and so hungry.

They become nothing more than heated breath and grasping hands, his tongue touching hers, drawing her out, making her arch into his touch and against his solid form, a tickle of heat blossoming deep in her cold belly.

They part for a deep breath each, foreheads pressed together, and Gold gives her a breathtaking smile. He says nothing more, just holds her face in his palm and breathes, like this is the be all and end all of everything in his life.

"How long before I'm crowned?" Belle asks, and Gold closes his eyes, pulling her closer.

"It's tonight. You've got time for something to eat, and then we have to go to a little shindig Sapphire's organised."

Belle shakes her head. "I'm not hungry. Let's stay here for a little longer."

He draws her deep into his hold, beneath his coat, and just embraces her, his cheek pressed to her temple. They stay there for a long time, but long will never be long enough.

Eventually, they part, calling for the elevator and stepping into it when it arrives and the doors open. He holds her hand until they reach their floor, amidst cheers and calls at Belle's arrival from people she has never known and others she does, like Saph.

The woman is jubilant and sober – a strange combination for the escort.

Saph curls Belle into a long, drawn-out embrace, fussing over her like a mother hen before telling her _thank you_.

Belle ponders over this as she is introduced to past victors, wealthy citizens, sponsors that never had the chance to spend their money on her, and men who most definitely are paying to get into bed with her. It's at this realisation – that this strange and overwhelming party-like gathering has a much seedier undertone – that Belle realises Saph's meaning.

_Thank you_. Thank you for winning, for selling herself, and for bringing Saph her desired cash. It makes Belle sick.

Gold is across the room, cane in hand, chatting and idly swirling some dark liquor around in a crystal glass. The man he's speaking to is tall, dark about the eyes and covered in golden tattoos, drinking bright blue liquid from a thin fluted glass. His eyes stray to Belle, and she knows that this man is also bidding.

She can see it in his heavy gaze, his quirked lip, and the way his eyes roll over her, head to foot. Gold draws the man's attention back to him, looking to be speaking more seriously, and the man nods.

Belle wonders how, with no sponsors spending any money on her in the arena, they can still bid, but she knows that there is much more behind it than that. Saph and Gold had spoken of Snow and his favour, and Belle can only hope that the president will not enter his own bid.

She'd rather have the tattooed man than _that_, but, then again, it's not up to her. If it was, she'd be giving herself to Gold, and only him.

She feels so small and young in this room, between these people, and not like a victor at all. She just wants peace, but knows that it must be bought. Everything has its price.

All too soon, Saph leads her out and away, taking her down to the staging area for the Victor's celebrations, including the crowning, the Banquet, and the final interview.

They must rise through the stage, first Saph and the team, then Gold, and then herself. Saph waits with her while the final preparations are made.

Belle voices her thoughts. "I thought I'd be wearing a ball gown."

"Well, yes." Saph's smile is wicked. "But we thought it would be better to have you look..._fresh_."

Belle turns her face away to mask her shame and anger. Fresh, as in virginal, as in _profitable_.

"Do you know who it is yet?" Belle asks, making her voice as strong as possible.

Saph flicks her head to and fro, watching stage hands going by as if one of them will tell her when she must make her entrance. She fluffs her blonde locks, smoothes down her dress, and gives Belle a cursory glance.

"Not yet, but it'll be tonight, so I suggest you either stay alert or keep your glass full. It's never pretty."

It's as if Saph has no use for her now it's all been decided. The escort's joy had been fleeting, and now she will be paid there is no hand-holding, no sugared words, just the bitter truth.

Her head spins with blood and wine and Gold, and...not three hours ago, she was _killing _someone! She can't make sense of anything, so perhaps it would be best to just...not try to.

"Isn't there anything I can...take?"

Saph raises an eyebrow. "Of course, but that's a trifle dangerous considering some of the men knocking down the door to get to you. Wine will be your friend tonight, so make use of it, hmm? Let it just...loosen you up."

Saph leaves with a flutter, before Belle can tell her to go.


	8. The Scorpion and the Frog, Trust Me

_**The Birds They Put In Cages**_

– _**Chapter 8 –**_

* * *

'_You fight and refuse,_

_Oh, you're a wild little bruise...'_

–_Marc Senter_

* * *

Here she sits in the Victor's chair, stunned from her reception onto the stage and the adoring crowds at her feet, and here it comes, the part she has been dreading.

The lights dim and the Capitol seal appears in shining white on a wide screen above the stage, before burning out into licking flames and revealing a simple scene.

Twenty-four tributes, panting and freezing and soaked, look out over the far-reaching mud-tracks of the wastelands. Each tribute receives a long camera shot of their expression – their eyes, their mouths, their hands, and other little twitches – and Belle knows this is because there is simply not enough footage to last the usual three hours. They have to drag it out.

The camera focuses on her face in the arena, and Belle sees her eyes locked on the immediate distance, her body crouching, and the determination in her set features. The gong rings and all hell breaks loose.

For a moment, the camera follows her, darting off towards the Cornucopia, but then it shows the carnage she had only heard. Grand drowns the girl from Eleven, his hand holding her, face down, in the mud, and Belle thinks of how pretty she had looked in her yellow dress.

Paige and Vanish slaughter a stream of tributes, with knives pulled from the packs littering the ground around them _and_ their bare hands. Harp kicks a dizzied boy in the face, sending him reeling, before finishing him off with a _snap_ of his neck.

The mud becomes red, the children scream, and she can see why it is the shortest Games in history. Not everyone had been as stable on the mud as she had, and the effort it takes some of the tributes to even get a few yards leaves them weak and winded.

It is Hell on earth.

Close-ups show fingers grasping in the mud and bubbles rising from drowning mouths, kicking legs and twisted faces, and then a girl, a knife in her throat and blood flowing across the wet ground around her, _gasping _for her father. The camera turns, and Belle feels bile rise in her throat when she sees that it is Reel, small and deadly, that stands above her, her blood across his leathers.

He looks so lost. So helpless. He doesn't want to be in the arena. But he is. So he snatches his knife from her neck and leaves the girl to bleed out as he storms away, face dark and blade ready.

Occasionally, a camera will turn to show an image of Belle's face in real time as she sits in the throne, stunned and glassy-eyed as she is presented in the top right corner of the screen above all the blood and gore. It seems to stand as a reminder of her part in it all and her _glory_.

The Gamemakers spend an awful amount of time following her, showing her aimless trek and discovery of the house. Then it shows the other tributes, less fortunate than she, collapsing in the mud or hiding under the pre-wrecked rubble of other buildings. But some, like the Careers, find shelter.

Avalon, Belle notices, is not shown much at all. She wonders if this is to lure citizens into forgetting about her and her 'innocence.'

Belle tries not to squirm when a short, _slow_ scene of her, undressing, wet and bedraggled is played across Panem. The camera follows the angles of her body, the rounds of her hips and breasts, the length of her legs, and she wonders how Gold – so soft and tender beneath his hard outer-shell – could have watched others watching _her_ do this.

The Careers seem quite jovial when their segments play, but Grand looms in each shot, brooding, only sitting in front of the fire and eating when forced. Eventually, he says he's going to go "_hunting_".

The word– _the ease_ with which he says it, makes her nauseous. The others agree to go with Grand at first light.

Belle is once more on the screen, and she watches herself slip into the sleeping bag and drift off, hair fuzzy and half-dry about her head, her axe loosely clutched at her side in her left hand. Cameras show the wastelands outside, starry skies and black ground, all quiet and still, and then her face, lax in sleep.

Her lips move. Her eyes flicker beneath her lids. Her brow furrows in her sleep. Slowly, she mouths one word. Small, she thinks, and indistinguishable to anyone other than her and Gold.

_Fireweed_.

In her dreams, she is not The Rose. She is his Fireweed.

Even now, she hears whisperings and murmurs about what she could have said in her slumber. A few muted conversations reach her ears through the quiet, and she tucks away a smile. They think she's mouthing the name of a lover.

Some tributes that had not died in the bloodbath, died on the plains, their cannon shots echoing into the night, ones that Belle had missed at the time. The film shows that there are only a handful of tributes left.

The cameras show the other tribute's entrance into her home, cold and shivering and as grateful to find the place as she had been, and then her awakening, tired and sore, surprised to find an intruder in her nest.

Thankfully, they've seen fit to leave out the part where she pees in the corner, but otherwise they are incredibly diligent in summarising her complete experience. Then the Careers are followed, from Grand's quick-paced march out of the wooden shack they had holed up in for the night to their group splitting in two to find survivors.

Harp and Vanish head off into the rainy mist without the others, leaving the rest to head in the other direction. Grand turns to Paige once Harp and Vanish are out of earshot.

"We'll kill them later," he says, slinging his arm about her shoulders, even as a determined expression settles itself across his face.

Paige is all smiles and conspiratorial whispers. Reel follows as if tethered.

Night falls over the land, the mists failing and the stars shining, and on one side of the screen she sees herself, preparing to make a break for it once the boy below her is asleep. On the other, she sees the moment Paige processes the smoke on the horizon from the boy's fire.

Grand breaks into a sprint, Paige close behind, and Reel keeps up doggedly, looking decidedly more energetic now the tedium and rains have broken.

Belle's image drops the ladder down, sweat shining on her forehead in the dim light, and then it plays out all over again, for the second time in so many hours.

"_Shouldn't have lit a fire._"

"_Not too bright, are you? I could see that smoke a mile off._"

"_I thought we were going to catch the girl_."

"_Come on. Might as well take out the competition that presents itself while we chase down sweet, little Avalon._"

The camera switches to that stone house she had seen Avalon running from. The inside of the house is cold and formidable, but a nest is tucked into the corner of the dank room where Avalon currently stands, over the two lifeless bodies of Harp and Vanish, water spilt everywhere.

Belle assumes Avalon had poisoned the water, and then left it out when her visitors came knocking. The image of the dead girl looks at Harp and Vanish's lifeless bodies strangely for a minute – not sadly, just...mute – before leaving the building and letting a hovercraft take the fallen two away. When it leaves, she returns inside and clears up.

The two cannon shots ring out. Grand's face appears, large and looming and twisted, on the screen.

"_That'll be Vanish and Harp. The little_ _bitch_."

Belle's past self muffles her cry as Reel falls. The other tribute scrabbles away. A cough, then quiet. Panting. Then screaming, crying, and _blood_.

"_Grand, please. I...I_ _love_ _you_."

Screams. More blood. Belle thinks she might be sick, _again_, as the ghost of Paige thuds against the floor in her struggles beneath Grand's weight.

The ladder drops. Gasping and choking fills the room, a background to her past footfalls across the bloody floorboards. Her axe gleams red in the firelight.

Belle shuts her eyes briefly as the axe comes down and the noise of Paige's ultimate demise rings out. She can see her own horrified expression imprinted on the inside of her eyelids – terrified, full of mercy, and half-resigned.

Belle opens her eyes. Her vomiting is muted, shot by the camera in a tasteful way so as not to put any Capitol citizens off of their food as they watch and eat dinner at home.

A hovercraft descends as Belle's double stumbles out of the wooden house, taking its three prizes from the wreckage. The shots fire.

And then comes the chase. The camera pans, showing the distance between Belle and Grand as they run, and then Grand and the stone house across the mud.

"_WHERE ARE YOU?_"

Avalon, on the right side of the screen, bolts out of her nest in alarm and stuffs random items into her pockets. A knife, a tiny bottle of something – probably the poison, gained from a pack – and her water canteen. She makes her escape, just as Grand begins his approach.

Belle sees what she hadn't earlier tonight. Grinding and _moaning, _the mountain of rocky pillars rises from the mud some distance off, calling to the panting and terrified Avalon as if to offer shelter in which to lose herself from her pursuer. It had instead become her altar.

From above, the camera shows the three last tributes, working their way through the maze of stone like ants in their den. Avalon discards her canteen at one point after it clangs loudly against a rock, hastening Grand's pace behind her. She loses the knife to a small slip and a clumsy drop.

Grand powers through, eyes blazing in the dark. Belle follows after, glasses reflecting the stars, her red lips parted with her heavy breaths.

Grand catches Avalon as she struggles to find a place to escape after making it to the very top of the rock formation. He clamps a hand around her throat, giving her enough breath to scream once. He releases and squeezes, earning him another scream from the shaking girl, and Belle can see the sick pleasure he takes from Avalon's torment. He throws her over the dais and presses his sword to her chest.

He spits. The camera pans to Belle, crouching in the dark

"_You just couldn't let us win_. _The one thing I could do to honour my district and the Capitol and you just couldn't let me do it. Are you_ _fucking happy_?"

More screams. Belle wants to shut her eyes, but she's back on the screen again in the top corner and she has a part she needs to play.

The camera follows Belle's past movements – her circling – until she stops, finding the perfect approach.

"_You need to die, and I'll be the one to do it. F-for_ _honour_, _for_ _glory_, _and when I'm finished with you, I'll go and find that rose and I'll_ _fuck her. And then I'll kill her, too. And then I will_ _win_."

Belle shivers again at his words. So fresh. So _recent_.

The camera zooms in on her lips, her ghost's whisper. "_One more. Just one more._"

"_Night-night._"

Squealing, more blood and satisfaction from Grand, and then Belle leaping, _flying_, and...

_Crack_.

It takes her breath away.

Grand falls, as does Avalon, and then there is only quiet, before the final announcement.

"_Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present Clarabelle Rosebay, Victor of the Seventy-second Hunger Games – Tribute of District Eight!_"

The film ends there with a single flickering image, showing her standing atop the dais, blood-spattered, starlit, and victorious, before a camera finds her face at this exact moment and presents it to Panem. The face of a victor.

Her smile feels tremulous, and it _is_, but at least it looks less so on screen. She looks...normal as she is called up to the stage to accept her crown from President Snow himself.

Snow is in his finery once more, all sparkling little buttons and gold thread, and he gives her a long look as he takes the golden, band-like crown from a velvet cushion hoisted by a small boy behind him. His gaze is just as piercing as before, but now, in close quarters, she can smell the fresh, white rose peeking from his top pocket. And something else.

It makes her stomach churn with more than nerves.

His thick lips quirk in a half-smile as he places the Victor's crown upon her head. "Congratulations. Enjoy the festivities."

As he removes himself from the stage amidst clapping and the anthem still blaring, Belle wonders if he means...the _festivities_. Those being bought and paid for up on the eighth floor.

* * *

Belle is whisked from arm to arm, person to person, as she is plied food and wine at the Banquet in President Snow's mansion. She sees a familiar face every now and then – Saph, Gold, Snow – but her duty is to have photographs taken with every official that can catch her, and so she has no time to stop and talk.

Or think. Especially no time to think.

Just a few hours earlier she was decapitating a girl, killing a boy by burying her axe in his skull, and it's strange to think her lily-white skin, flashing in front of all these cameras in her pretty blue dress, was stained red not so long ago.

Saph's advice is something she takes to heart as she sees stranger men in stranger outfits, with odd tattoos and funny surgeries making their eyes bigger or their fingers longer.

The wine is Belle's friend, and she doesn't shun it. Oh, no. She _embraces _it. Where just a little while ago she had thought it ridiculous to drown her sorrows, now she soothes them.

A glass. Two. Soon, she doesn't care who takes her hand or kisses her cheek. She doesn't care who pinches her backside and laughs to their friends. She is...untouchable.

On one particularly wild turn about the room, gilded decorations and strange faces swirling about her, she comes nose to nose with Gold. And he doesn't look pleased.

Oh, he's all smiles for the people around them, laughing off Belle's enthusiasm for the burgundy liquid, but inside, in those deep and dark eyes, she can see he's furious.

A part of her cares. The rest of her is too numb to.

With a few well-placed excuses about fresh air, he escorts her from the grand room through an open side-door, out into an enclosed little area. It's a small courtyard, the stone walls covered in vines and lined with rosebushes. She swallows her nausea at the reminder of Snow's scent.

Gold takes her elbow. "_Belle_."

"What?"

Is that her voice? So fluttery and reedy? It doesn't sound like her at all!

She looks up from the pale cobbles to see Gold's eyes, intense and boring into hers. Even though he's angry, and upset – and he has a _right_ to be – there's still a certain softness there. For her.

"Belle, what are you doing?"

The cool air meets her flushed cheeks, and she fancies she can almost hear a sizzling noise. She sways a little.

"Drinking," she answers him, refusing to let her eyes tear like they want to. "Drinking for later."

Gold's face creases and softens. "Sweetheart, you don't need to–"

"I _do_," she interrupts, her voice soft and wavering. "Didn't you _see_ some of the men in there a-and at the party earlier? I need all the wine I can _get_."

Gold pulls her towards him, but even in her state, she doesn't budge. He cups her face in his warm hand, and she watches a few of his half-curls sway in a soft, night breeze.

"No, Belle." He gives her a sigh. "I need to tell you something."

She raises a shaking hand to stop him. "Don't. I don't want to know who it is."

"I wasn't–"

"_No_," Belle bids him. "No. Just...just don't."

He tries to pull her close but she can't bear it. Not while she's like this. Not while she's preparing herself for being...being _fucked_ later.

"Stop it," she pleads. "Just stop."

Gold does as he's bid, arresting his hands, but he still gives her that chill-inducing stare.

"Why won't you let me help?" He questions simply, and Belle can't quite believe he doesn't know the just-as-simple answer.

So, instead, she lies. "Because this isn't your concern."

She's sparing him, and she can't believe he doesn't know that. She won't have him lead her to the man she'll be spending the night with. Hopefully she won't remember who she does it with anyway, come morning.

She wants to push Gold away, spare his concern, but he's too _good_, too _kind_, and she can see all he wants to do is save her. She's frustrating him, she can tell, but he holds his tongue.

"Let's just clear your head," he tells her calmly. "And then we'll get out of here."

The walls of the small courtyard close in on her abruptly, and it's like all the air has been squashed from her lungs, replaced by burning and acidic purpose. She needs to do this, and Gold needs to be spared.

"Leave me alone," Belle tells him, straightening herself remarkably. "Just...go."

He takes half a step towards her, but her expression wards him off. She is serious, on the outside, even if she's quivering internally.

Gold frowns, visibly holding himself back instead of reaching for her. "Belle?"

The only way to get him to leave – to help him, and to make her able to actually go through with all this – is to hurt him.

"Don't you _care_?" She asks lowly. "Don't you care someone will be..._fucking_ me tonight?"

She has no idea where the bravery to say this to his face comes from.

His expression tightens – eyes flashing, gold cap showing itself as he bares his teeth – and his hands make fists at his sides, one around the handle of his cane.

"Of course I do," he grits out. "_Of course I do_. But I can't help it. The president–"

Belle shakes her head. "It was Saph. I know it was. She told Snow I'd rake in the money, and he sanctified it. The rest of it was _you_."

He staggers back immediately. "Me?"

She hates this. Hates this lying, this act, this entire _thing_, but...it's their way out, and, hopefully, one day, he'll forgive her and they can be together.

"Don't think I didn't see you talking to those men tonight," she accuses shrilly. "What? Were you telling them how I _feel_, how I kiss? Because you would know, wouldn't you? Just trying out the Victor before she's passed around!"

Her words are vile, she knows, but she can't stop them now they've begun pouring from her lips. Horrible and black, she wants to swallow them and let them rot, but she can't. She wants him distant, far away from this whole business, and if it wounds them both then so be it.

It's like he's looking at a stranger, the expression on his face, like he doesn't quite know who she is or what she's done with the _real _Belle, but this is The Rose talking – the _Victor_ – and he was the one who said he could tell the difference. Either he can't, or she's just that good an actress.

He manages to grit out a denial, even _now_, but she's too quick. "Just go. Just...find someone to warm your bed tonight, because mine's _full_."

The hurt that crosses his face cuts her so deeply, and all she wants to do is stop the charade and pull him close, whisper reassurances and kiss him deeply. But she needs this – needs this pain to let her take a stranger between her legs and be passed around like a cup – and she hopes that this wine-addled expression of love is understood in the end, that she just wants him to not get hurt because she _cares_.

It's obvious that he's now questioning every single moment with her, every kiss and caress and word, and she can see in his eyes and on his face that he's come to the conclusion that hurts the most. He thinks it was all an act.

His face clears of emotion, and she knows that this is_ his_ Victor face. This is his _mask_.

"You duped the Dealer, dearie," he says coldly, _unflinchingly_, stepping back and turning for the door. "Congratulations."

Gold leaves her there, shaking and chilled, and she knows that when she returns to the party, he will not be there.


	9. Relax My Beloved

_**The Birds They Put In Cages**_

– _**Chapter 9 –**_

* * *

'_Be confident, my love,_

_Don't bow your head for me...'_

–_Alex Clare_

* * *

Saph pinches the apples of Belle's cheeks to make them a pretty and enticing rosy hue, but Belle can't care less. She's numb, fuzzily warm, and she doesn't think her cheeks need pinching anyway because she's so flushed from the wine.

Saph gives her a knowing smile as she shifts Belle to face the doors of the elevator they're in. The escort had taken her from the party and practically shoved her in a black car, before bringing her to this fancy Capitol hotel. They've given Belle the penthouse suite, and the ride up is taking a good minute.

In the shiny, silver doors Belle can make out her reflection; rosy and sleepy-eyed, she looks like she's ready to bed someone by choice.

Saph gives her shoulders a squeeze. "I told you wine would be your friend. Now, remember, if you're _good_, they might want to keep you. Marrying whoever it is – provided they're not already married, of course – is your best chance at not being passed about like a party favour, hm?"

"You don't know who it is?" Belle asks, and her voice is toneless from the alcohol.

"It went down to the wire!" Saph's positively _gleeful_ about it. "And a marriage will bring in extra compensation, of course."

Belle says nothing. The elevator gives a soft noise as it halts, announcing its arrival, and the doors open soundlessly.

The apartment is lush, all thick carpeting and modern artwork, with dark wood-panelled walls and tall windows showing off the brightening Capitol skyline. Saph ushers Belle through the living area, into the bedroom, clapping her hands together for the lights.

When the room is illuminated, Belle can't help but stare at the bed. It makes her knees shake. The structure is beautiful, but forbidding, made up of polished, dark wood posts and dark, silken bed sheets.

Saph points to a door across the room, set into the panelled wall. "There's something to change into in there. I have to get going. The customers don't like an audience. Well...not all of them."

_Customers_.

For a moment, Belle wonders how long it will take her to circulate the Capitol to everyone's standards, and _how long_ it will be until she and Gold can be together. Perhaps it's best that she pushed him away tonight. Perhaps it will make things easier on them in the future.

Her heart disagrees.

Saph leaves with a flourish, closing the bedroom door carefully, obviously thrilled. Belle goes to the door the escort pointed out to her and finds a bathroom, all sparkling and painted tiles, with a small, silken pile of things for her to wear on the cream-coloured counter.

Belle changes into the nightgown. It's short and uncomfortable – unlike _anything_ she has ever worn – made of dark blue silk and pretty navy lace. She is given matching underwear and a garter, with thick bows on them, like she's a present.

She thinks of Gold, of his disgust over her words, and finds that false courage inside of her from 'The Rose'.

Her legs and feet are bare, but the carpet keeps her toes warm as she turns off the bathroom light and once more enters the bedroom. She takes in the four dark walls, the small shaded windows above the bed's headboard, and the empty closets that won't be filled.

She's sure the only rooms that will be in use tonight are the bedroom and bathroom. At least, she hopes.

She's sobering rapidly.

Belle tentatively sits upon the bed, stroking the ribbon of the garter around her thigh, and waits. It isn't long before she hears the elevator sound its arrival, and muffled footsteps across the carpeted floor.

She doesn't have time to collect her thoughts properly or pull herself together. She tries to make herself presentable at the end of the bed, legs crossed and shoulders back, but her palms still sweat and her fingers still twist themselves into the bed sheets.

Belle makes one last wish for kindness, as the door handle turns down to admit the newcomer.

She bursts into tears at the sight of him.

Gold doesn't touch her, doesn't say a word, merely steps into the room, leaving the door open behind him, and comes to a sedate halt a few paces in, leaning heavily on his cane.

Her breathless sobs overcome her, the anxiety building to this very point crashing over her like a wave, and she can't spend another second in this..._state_. He looks at her, almost warily, and tries so very hard to keep his distance. Belle reaches out a shaking hand.

Gold visibly hesitates. "I didn't know whether to come or not."

She doesn't care. He's here. He'll keep her safe.

"Rum," she manages to gasp out, and it's like she's said a magic word, one that will only ever work on him.

His mask slips, his face becoming pained, and he takes the few steps to the bed, falling heavily at Belle's side. He throws down his cane and wraps his arms around her.

The spice of cologne and his natural musk infiltrates her teary state, and the smell calms her. She shakes against him and his soothing hands, feeling so strange pressed up against him in his full attire while wearing only underwear.

His hand makes a circuit over her back, gently stroking her skin until her crying quiets.

She snivels for a moment against his shirt, murmuring, "Can we go before he gets here?"

Gold presses his trembling lips to her forehead, breathing deeply through his nose. She feels determination in the twist of his mouth against her skin, before he pulls away an inch.

"_I_ bought you, Belle."

For a moment, she pauses. He hasn't come to save her...but he has. No. He's _already_ saved her, even earlier, probably when she'd told him to find someone else.

"How much?"

She doesn't know why she asks this instead of all the hundreds of more important things she wants to. Perhaps it is because it's easier.

"A hell of a lot," he replies. "Called in every favour I'm owed, as well."

"_Why_?" A whisper from her lips, pleading for something she hopes is still possible after her rashness of earlier.

He's quiet for a moment, as if he's not quite sure himself, before giving her a guarded answer.

"You've got to know by now."

She knows. He cares.

"I meant..." Belle bites back the instinct to shed more unnecessary tears. "I meant, after what I said...earlier."

"I went out on a limb," he answers roughly, as if his tie's too tight, "that you still want this."

Her hands grip his shoulders through his coat and she looks up, directly into his eyes. There's hope there, colouring his face, even as he tries to hide it, and a powerful feeling erupts inside of her belly.

Sometimes words mean nothing. Like right now. The nod that she gives him is enough, and then he's kissing the life out of her, holding her close, chest heaving.

"I thought," she pants, "it would be easier–"

"Was it?" He demands, though his voice holds no menace and his eyes are soft. "Was it easier, Belle? Because I know it wasn't for me. I almost...almost didn't come, because I thought _I_'d taken advantage of you."

She wants to laugh. All she can do is hold on to him tighter and let him pull her close. After a long silence, he pulls back and shrugs off his coat, standing and holding it up for Belle to step into.

She does as directed, and she's so much warmer for it. Gold's arms come around her middle.

"I'm sorry for leaving you there, at the mansion," he practically whispers against Belle's ear. "I was angry."

She knows he was devastated, the same as her.

"I'm sorry for the things I said." Belle closes her eyes and just takes in his warmth, and his comfort, and his _closeness_. "I thought it would be easier if I was the Rose."

His hands secure the long coat about her firmly. "You're never the Rose with me, love," he breathes. "Now, let's get your things and get you out of here."

* * *

Now, ten minutes later, they stand in a new suite all to themselves in the same building. It had only taken a short ride in the private elevator to reach the lower floor, and Gold had protected her, shielding Belle from view as they entered the closest door in the hallway.

No one was about to see them though, what with everyone being out celebrating the final Games night before next year.

"I took the room when President Snow gave Saph use of the penthouse," Gold informs her, turning on the lights.

Belle stares at the smaller space, the cosier furnishings and soft cream carpet, her forehead creasing. "But...that must have been a while ago."

"When we first arrived in the Capitol," Gold agrees quietly, moving around her towards the wet bar.

"And you'd decided then?"

He turns to look at her over his shoulder. "I was going to be here for you, Belle. No matter what. I never went through this – never had to. I was never a catch, just a victor. And you don't deserve this."

"I don't think anyone does," she murmurs, taking a seat on the long, plush couch angled towards a decorative, stone fireplace.

Gold meets her there, but there is only one drink in his hand, for himself, and she's glad. She never wants to see a glass of wine again.

Belle tentatively curls into his side, and Gold accepts her immediately, wrapping his right arm about her shoulders, sipping the inch of whisky in his glass with his left hand.

Her hand creeps beneath his jacket, and she relaxes as she strokes the silk lining of his suit. She wonders how long he's been pushing along negotiations for selling her virginity, and how long he's been trying to get the right person to buy only to deal with them for money or favours.

Eventually, Gold finishes his drink and places the empty glass on the floor. He stretches himself out, anchoring Belle more firmly to his side as he settles into the corner of the couch.

The angle is perfect, as is the position, and though she isn't the least bit tired, she can say with absolute certainty, she's never been more relaxed in all her life. Tonight, there is no reason to worry, because Gold has saved her and he is here, and she knows that pushing him away will make things worse.

Keeping him is easier. Letting him be here for her is what will keep them both going.

"You know," she mutters conversationally a while later, drowsy from his warmth, the wine from earlier, and the low lighting. "Saph told me the only way to get out of being passed around like a party favour is to get married."

His jaw tightens for a moment. "_Fucking Sapphire_."

She lets him have his ire at the escort for a moment, before reiterating her statement, this time as a question.

"Is that right?" Belle asks, and Gold's eyes meet hers, dark and soft.

He nods, giving her a squeeze. Belle gives him a slow smile.

"I wouldn't..." Belle bites her lip, searching for the words she needs. "I wouldn't...mind, at _all_, if–"

"What happened to taking it slow?" Gold queries, interrupting her stammering, and she watches a teasing smile unfold across his lips.

Relieved she doesn't have to fumble on any more, she settles her chin firmly on his shoulder and draws her arms about his middle, sighing.

"If making it official means we'll be left alone in the Victors' Village for the rest of our days, then I'll do it. We can slow down after that."

His fingers play with her loose curls, twisting them about his knuckles and watching them spring free. "Anything you want that I can give, Belle," he tells her seriously. "Just ask."

Smiling, she lifts a finger and points to her lips. Gold's infamously sly grin surfaces, and he leans into her, smelling of whisky and warmth.

Slowly, _tantalisingly_, he moves in closer. The end of his nose brushes her cheek. His hot breath tickles her lips. His left hand secures itself at her waist. His right thumb brushes a soft line up the side of her neck. Their lips finally meet.

The stubble across his jaw is growing soft, and the feel of it beneath her curious and questing fingertips adds another layer of sensation, another burning flame to the warmth erupting inside of her. His kiss is tender, first to her upper lip and then her lower, his tongue making a slow pass against her willing mouth. But then she buries her hand in his soft half-curls, and the moan that catches in his throat as she curls her fingers makes her skin _itch_. His kiss turns more insistent.

Halfway across his lap Belle settles herself, with one hand in his hair and one inside his jacket against his firm chest. His fingers crawl beneath his coat covering her frame, and they begin to map her skin in burning trails and swirls.

Her half-hitched sigh at his touch only makes his kiss more demanding, and Belle is all too happy to acquiesce.

Their breaths meet between them as their embrace intensifies, chests heaving in tandem. Heat suffuses Belle's skin under Gold's touch, and when his hand draws up the outside of her naked thigh, meeting the blue ribbon of her garter, she thinks she just might faint with the excitement that courses through her.

There's a heat pooling between her thighs from the fire consuming her, and she knows that only Gold can satisfy the absolute _need _she's feeling. Belle isn't sure whether the wine is loosening its hold or strengthening it, but she knows what she wants and it's the same as what she needs.

Her hand tugs one side of his black shirt out of his pants, so her fingers can touch his bare skin. He's so soft, and he's so _slim_, especially beneath the swathes of black and silk. But his frame, she knows, belies his strength.

His kiss falters and his fingers tense about her waist when one wayward finger of hers decides to explore the downy hair descending from his navel. The muscles in his stomach jump, and Belle feels a pleasant tug inside of her at the movement.

Gold draws back an inch from her kiss-swollen mouth. "Belle?"

She cannot resist a gentle shiver at his gravelly tone, the lilt to his voice all but drowned out by his heart-falteringly deep brogue. Her slight shift pushes her more firmly into his lap, and she can _feel_ him. There.

"Oh."

Belle's not completely innocent, but she's never been like this, pressed up against a man who wants her so very badly that she can _feel _it. Gold's so hard, she wonders how he can bear it.

His half-shuttered eyes gaze up at her, full of want, but his lips shape other thoughts.

"This isn't going slow," he manages to say, albeit a little breathlessly. "At_ all_."

Belle runs a fingertip over his cheekbone, under his jaw, behind his ear, across the soft arch of an inquisitively-cocked eyebrow, and she knows she wants this. She had been prepared to be given to a stranger, to have him show her the secrets of the bedroom, but now there is only she and Gold, and she _wants him_.

"Please," she whispers, leaning in to give him a soft brush of her lips against his, to tempt him. "_Rum_."

Belle's pleased to note that he doesn't take much persuading where she's concerned, and it gives her a type of pride that she can affect him this much. She can make him lift her into his arms with just his name, and she can hurry his steps into the darkened bedroom with a single, urging breath against his exposed neck.

With a bit of manoeuvring and a few whispered reassurances, he presses her into the lush bed, kissing her throat as she tugs off his jacket.

The sheets are softer than the silk of the penthouse bed, and cooler against her flushed skin. Belle approves of this bed much more, being just wide enough to accept the both of them and soft enough that when she throws her head back at the feel of Gold's tongue on her pulse it doesn't hurt her neck.

He wrangles her out of his coat, and she manages to undo half of the buttons on his shirt in retaliation. His tie, she leaves to him. He undoes it with a few tugs and a pained expression as he parts from her to finish the job of fully unclothing his chest.

Gold's skin is touchable, so smooth and warm beneath her hands, and she finds little in the way of body hair, though she can't say she minds. The downy fluff leading down his belly makes her smile, and it's nice to touch. His shiver tells her he likes it too.

In the low, bedroom lights that Gold had half-heartedly clapped for, he looks down at her with something in his expression that makes her sigh. He delicately pushes her hair out of her eyes and slips his other hand along the outside of her thigh. When his fingertips meet the bow at her hip, on one side of her panties, his breath comes even shorter and shallower.

"So, you...want to get married to me?" He asks, half-panting, and Belle doesn't even puzzle over his sudden words.

She nods. "Then, after, you can court me."

He laughs and smiles, like she's never seen him do, and then he calms, and he tells her quietly, "I plan on it. I'll see what I can do tomorrow."

"Do?"

"About the engagement," Gold tells her, hands roaming skin and silk alike. "The president wants money, Belle, for you. The more he passes you around, the more your..._value_ decreases and the less he makes. If I offer him – and _Sapphire –_ enough, up front, he might take the deal."

"Well, you _are_ the Dealer, after all." Belle smiles.

"That I am, dearie," he mutters teasingly against her neck, his lips exploring a particularly sensitive spot. "Best you don't forget it."

She laughs, even as he makes her moan, and then all is quiet and still as he, ever so slowly, slips a hand beneath her silk nightdress. His fingertips map her navel, her flat belly, the slight rise of her ribs, and then they slip beneath the elastic underlining her breasts, making her soft skin turn to gooseflesh and her nipples pebble at his warm touch.

Her breath stutters in her throat as his thumb, gentle and teasing, presses against her rising nipple, torturing a breathy moan from her parted lips. His hair falls into his eyes as she glances up to gaze at him, and his expression is so _intense_, so very focused, and so very, very lustful.

The time for talking and laughing is over, for now. Now is the time for sighs and moans, and for Belle to discover what mysteries lay between Gold's rented sheets.

His wavy hair falls across her chest as his head dips lower, his lips blazing a trail to her sternum and kissing between her breasts. When she feels his tongue there, at the very peak of her cleavage, her heart picks up its harsh beating, and Belle wonders if Gold can feel it, the vibrations thrumming against his inquisitive lips.

As he leans over her, pressed against her and intent on making Belle moan and arch into his touch, she finds her hands travelling the broad expanse of skin across his back, slightly damp and hot beneath her touch.

She can feel the regular ridges and notches of his spine, the hard planes of his shoulder blades, and she can feel his muscles, tense and twitching, indicating his need.

When Belle curls her short nails into his skin after a particularly nice kiss to her nipple through the gown, Gold loses all semblance of his patented cool.

He looks up at her with dark eyes. His tongue is caught enticingly between his teeth, his breath heavy, and the end of a lock of hair flutters with his every breath, swaying before his eyes like a metronome. His fingers curl in the sheets, as Belle lifts herself away slightly, moving further back across the bed, towards the soft and inviting pillows.

When she, in a particularly brave move, slips the lingerie over her head and leaves herself in nothing but the garter and panties, Gold finally ceases in his stillness and silence.

With a low groan, he crawls over her, his hands passing over every inch of her bare skin that is available to him. He presses his face into her hair, losing his breathy words in her curls.

"So very lovely," Gold mutters, fingers idly playing with the ribbons at her hips.

Belle feels a smile spread across her face as she covers his hands with her own, tugging gently at the ribbons. They come undone in a flash and a flutter, and Gold peels away the remaining lace between them.

His mouth worships her neck, her shoulder, before hopping straight to her left breast with a soft curse and driving her insane. She digs at him with her fingers, pulls and combs his hair, brings her legs up about his middle to draw him closer, closer to the _end_, and then she slips a hand between them to rid him of his pants.

They pant and writhe as one, as her fingers grip the zipper and _tug_. Belle pushes at the soft, black material, unfastening his belt with a grunt when she finds that particular hindrance, and then finally, _finally_, they are absolutely naked, Gold kicking off his trousers as Belle drinks in the sight of him above her.

The slimness and the quiet strength she had only felt and seen parts of previously are now all exposed to her. His chest, practically hairless, calls for her touch, and his hips, cutting into a faint 'v'-shape, make her tingle unexpectedly. His legs are surprisingly toned, but Belle assumes this is because of the leg injury he sustained from his Games, meaning he has to make up for the weakness in muscle-strength.

What lies between his legs, though, has no need to be made up for. Belle has no real comparison to make with the male form in _detail_, but what she sees is pleasing to her, and that's all that matters. The books on anatomy that she has read come to mind, but she has no need for terms and diagrams at a time like this, or to remember the steamy scenes in the romance novels she's pored over in her room before now.

Belle won't think of it as his _hardness_, or his _manhood_, because there's something so much more carnal about the full, flushed head and thick, slightly curved shaft jutting from his thatch of soft hair. It is not a delicate part of his body. It makes her tremble at the mere sight of it – his cock, as the boys at home call it. Cock, yes – she rolls the word around in her head, her breath coming short at the implication of the sound. She feels herself tighten somewhere deep inside, _aching_, and then looks up to see Gold is watching her with his own type of fascination etched on his features.

She stops her staring, finishing her study of him. His arms are a thing of beauty, too, though. She runs her hands up from his wrists to his shoulders as he settles himself over her once more, relishing his warmth and his strength.

Gold's hands slide beneath her, one curling about her shoulder while the other slips down to press against the small of her back. He gifts her with a wavering smile, his eyes soft and dark, and kisses her with so much passion it steals her faltering breath.

Without words, Belle parts her legs for him, welcoming his weight and the feel of him there. She jerks when she feels the foreign touch of the head of his cock against her bare, slick lips, gentle and tentative against her, sensitising her to Gold's touch.

He kisses her, looking her right in the eyes and drawing all Belle's attention to his face. He smiles, bringing the backs of his fingers up for a long moment to trace her cheek, before letting that same hand slip between them, the backs of his fingers dancing over her aching, right nipple and then the soft expanse of her stomach.

Gold distracts her so well with his kisses, his sweet nothings, and his smiles that Belle only notices the pain when he's inside her and it is done.

She throws her head back, holding her breath as she counts through the pain, eyes damp and closed, legs tensed about Gold's still and solid form.

He brings her back though, pulls her away from the fierce aching that is someplace deep and new inside of her, and helps her to relax.

"That's it, love," he whispers, lips above hers, hands cupping her face. "That's it."

He doesn't apologise, doesn't tell her that the worst is over – because how could he know? – and Belle is glad for that. He simply leads her through the pain until there's a moment's peace from it, so she can let her jumping muscles go slack.

It feels so strange, to be so stretched and so..._stuffed_, to feel something so warm and hard inside her, something not a part of her but of someone else.

Belle moves, experimentally rolling her hips, and besides Gold's strangled noise of approval and an unfamiliar burning feeling, there is the slightest tug of pleasure, of _excitement_. The feel of _Gold_ – of his breath and weight, his flesh and soft hair, his flexing fingers and trembling body – makes the pain bearable.

She moves again, and this time he follows her lead. With obvious effort, he places his hands beneath her shoulder and in the small of her back again, and he withdraws from her.

The sensation – the _feel_ of his cock sliding out from between her tender lips and along her stretched passage – is immobilising in its strange newness and intensity. For a moment, Gold seems concerned about her stillness, but then Belle smiles a little and tightens her hold about his neck, and his relief is evident.

She learns to move her legs again, flexing her muscles, even as Gold presses his cock back inside her, and his movements are gentle, if a little jerky. He's just as stunned as she, Belle can see, and it lessens her anxiety a little.

It is just between them, this fantastic new thread in the tangled weaving they have, and it doesn't matter that he's obviously done this before, because he's here and only with her, and she can see – and _feel_ – that this is special. This is _theirs_. Not the Capitol's, or the district's – just theirs.

This instinctive rolling of the hips and sighing, watching each other's expressions and _feeling_ this absolute wonder is engineered entirely by them, by their want for each other, not some ploy or plot for sponsors or favour. This is real.

Belle smiles, even as her heart thumps wildly against her ribs and her legs begin to wobble with the strain of holding them in place, and Gold returns the gesture, settling in closer, his shoulders shaking, and kissing her softly upon the lips.

She wants to cry. And laugh. And scream. And sigh. But all that escapes her is his name, so soft, whispered on a hopeful breath, some fantastic new feeling beginning to course through her aching body.

"_Rum_," she repeats, and Gold closes his eyes for a brief moment, as if in bliss.

"Oh, Belle," he replies, almost brokenly, his hips jerking off-pace.

She knows he's close, but then, she thinks, she might be too, and so she tells him as much.

"I..." Her murmur is lost in his soft neck as she kisses his pulse, laving the thrumming beneath his skin with a gentle lick. "I think..."

He needs no more urging once her hips begin to echo his urgency, and he looks down at her as if he can't believe she's even remotely close to being on the crest of what she's feeling.

These waves of warmth, this _tingling_ spreading across her flushed and damp skin, and the taste of an excruciating _something_ in the very tips of her curled toes. She feels desperation, like in those times she took curious fingertips to herself back home and quietly writhed against her hand in the dead of night. She knows pleasure awaits her, if she only has the strength to peer past the pain and chase it.

Gold's hands roam her body feverishly once realisation sets in across his features, his fingers teasing her breasts with every jolt of his hips and his other hand, sliding down her stomach, heading to the untouched and helplessly aching point of her body.

Before he can reach her, finding that small bud that has given her so much pleasure when she found it herself all those times before, he angles a particularly forceful thrust and sends Belle reeling, hitting something deep inside and _grinding_ down against her clit.

The flood of sensation that washes through her leaves her blind, deaf and dumb to all except Gold's face, twisted and wild and slack, mouth shaped with inexpressible pleasure.

Belle's muscles seize in time with the spasms rocking her electrified body, before, all of a sudden, vanishing, leaving her boneless and limp beneath Gold's shaking body. He falls onto his forearms above her, panting hard and chest heaving in time, and she can feel him – his seed – hot across her thigh.

She's sweaty and tired and pained, but she has enough energy to smile at him again, beneath a dark curl plastered to her forehead, and be happy with his forethought to pull out at the very last moment. Though a curious part of her wonders how he might feel, hot and thick inside of her, shaking and _coming_ in time with her own pleasure.

But this is enough for eternity, her arms about his shoulders and his head tucked into the crook of her neck, as their legs tangle together awkwardly, an echo of their lovemaking.

Gold kisses her temple, but says nothing.

She knows. He loves her.


	10. Casting Lines

_**The Birds They Put In Cages**_

– _**Chapter 10 –**_

* * *

'_And who are we to argue fate,_

_and who is time to make us wait?_

_I'm standing here with nothing left to prove...'_

–_Jack's Mannequin_

* * *

The compulsory attendance for the citizens of District 8 to see in the Victor's train means that Belle has a huge audience awaiting her return.

The familiar faces in the crowd smile or frown or don't do anything at all as she steps out of the open door of the train and onto the platform. She is ushered towards a waiting car after a few moments of waving and smiling and fluttering her eyelashes for the cameras recording her reappearance in her district.

Belle is taken, alone, to the Justice Building, where the mayor shakes her hand and welcomes her back. He tells her what is expected of her in the coming months – nothing, practically – and what house will be hers in the Victors' Village. Not that it matters. She knows she'll find her way over to Gold's no matter where she lives.

She is then taken in the same car that she arrived in to her new house. Left there, alone again, she explores the luxuries only Gold and the officials know about in District 8, like the clean running water and heating, the interior design and the clothes, the _food_, and the tens of rooms in her pretty little house.

They're all well-built, the houses in the Victors' Village, stocked with everything a freshly-crowned victor might need – hot water on-demand for all the washing it will take to keep the memory of blood off of her skin, and thick walls for keeping in any nightmare-fuelled screams.

Belle has managed to sleep more often than not at night, but it takes Gold's arms to truly send her off and keep her dreams at bay. It's been a week and a half since that night in his hotel room, and she has had to sleep on her own a total of four times. Each time Belle has woken damp and panting, reaching out for the comfort of Gold's touch to find nothing but cold sheets.

His late nights and meetings – mostly due to the Capitol citizens' proclivities for being nocturnal – have, however, been essential.

Gold had formally requested an audience with President Snow, and he and Belle had waited three days before an answer was given. Gold had gone to his appointment and returned with the news that Snow demanded only a little more money than had been offered. Gold had worked tirelessly after that meeting to make sure that every avenue was explored and every stone was turned, and, eventually, the sum had been amounted.

Snow had accepted the offer – with much reluctance, according to Gold – but added the stipulation that if they keep quiet about their upcoming nuptials – to keep the public interested in the "single and carefree Bloody Rose" – then there will be no repercussions for them.

And so, they will be married, after the Victory Tour, and in the privacy of their own home, according to the customs of their district. And, now, they are poor and favourless, but Belle can't keep the smile off of her face as she looks out of the wide kitchen window, above the chrome sink, and sees a car dropping off Gold outside of the house opposite.

Their green and grassy gardens – Belle's never seen so much greenery in all her life – back onto each other, and she notices the moment he catches sight of her through the window. His eyes fix on hers, his smile slow and sly, and she knows that he's arranged this, their homes being adjacent to one another.

Belle opens the latch on the backdoor and steps out onto her back porch. Gold's cane sinks into the soft grass as he crosses their backyards to meet her. She sits in the spotless, golden-coloured, wooden swing seat, and he joins her there.

He brings with him the smell of strong tea and his own familiar scent. Belle leans in to him, pushing his soft hair away from his neck and taking a deep breath. His smell makes her head swim and brings a smile to her face.

Gold turns his face to her a little, so Belle can see his hooded gaze and curling smile. "Taking advantage, dear?"

"When don't I?" She murmurs, and feels more than hears his laugh.

He wraps an arm about her shoulders and draws her in close, squeezing her shoulder and pressing a kiss into her hair. Belle can't believe that they're actually here, in this moment, able to make some kind of future together.

They stay quiet for the longest time, Gold with his eyes closed as Belle's gaze roves the white and cloudy sky. Their district isn't the prettiest – all industry and business, and practicality over preference – but the Victors' Village is most certainly a slice of Heaven. Lush and green, safe and comfortable, Belle admires the carefully-tended surroundings down to the smallest white flower dotting her new lawn.

"I'll invite Red over at some point, though, knowing her, she'll be over herself soon enough," Belle says aloud, and Gold mutters his reply.

"What about your father?"

Belle knows that a victor's family is entitled to live in the victor's house with him or her, and she's more than willing to have her father stay with her, living comfortably for the rest of his days, but only if _he_ comes to _her_.

She'd like to extend a hand to him, be the first to broach this chasm between them, but his dismissal of her hurts too much to allow it.

Belle glances up at Gold. He returns the simple look, giving her a soft quirk of his lips once he's found his answer in her expression.

"Whatever you want, Belle," he promises, and they return to silence once more.

After some time, Belle's thoughts begin to drift, as her fingers fiddle with the shining, black buttons of Gold's long coat, the material soft against her cheek.

"How did you first notice me?" She asks, her voice hushed, because they haven't really talked much of the past.

A deep breath. "I was going to Granny's to collect a favour. You flitted out, your nose in a book, and I..."

She gives a shy smile. "I tend to get engrossed."

"You were seventeen, I think," he continues, frowning slightly. "Too young and pretty for the likes of me. Put me in a bad mood for the rest of the week."

"Why?"

Gold shakes his head. "I just... Seeing you, feeling that instant..._something_, it just reminded me I was alone."

Belle's eyes flick to the house across from their slightly swaying seat, the neat porch and the white – almost pink – paint, and she wonders how long he's lived in that house like it's a tomb, without comfort or touch, a beast in its den.

His eyes follow hers, to his house, and it's like he knows exactly what she's thinking. "My father died in an accident in the factory when I was ten, and my mother, she...passed away while I was in the arena. She never saw me win, and I was never able to take her out of our hovel and give her this life."

Gold's hand slips from Belle's shoulder, around her waist, and feels out her arm wrapped about her middle, finding the fingers of her right hand and taking them between his. And, suddenly, it's like he's not just telling her a story, he's sharing it with her because he _wants_ her to know.

"I never wanted to marry," he tells her. "I thought it was best to just be the man everyone thinks I am, and live out whatever time I have left. Then you appeared, and you made me curious."

Belle grins. "Did you try to find out about me?"

Gold turns his face to hers and gives her a wry smile. "_Try_ being the operative word, sweetheart. No one would talk. I'm sure they thought I was going to steal you away from them."

"You sort of _have_," she points out, and he takes her teasing with good grace.

Gold nods and sighs. "After a while, I saw you in Granny's again as I passed by. The door was open, you were talking to her about trading for a book about birds, and she just gave it to you, told you to look after her granddaughter as payment." He laughs. "You said something about doing that anyway so she should name another price, and I just knew...you were precious. You _are_ precious, Belle."

She cuddles closer, enjoying his warmth and his comfort, and he returns the favour, tightening his hold.

"You make me want to be me, Belle," he whispers into her ear, only for her. "Not the Victor. You make me want to not be so alone."

She smiles, because she knows he loves her, even if it all started at a distance and they're still really getting to know each other now, and...well, she's sure it's mutual. But neither of them will say it yet, that's all.

She kisses his cheek, lingering, before his voice interrupts her casual savouring of his warm, tea-tinted breath fanning across her face.

"What about me?" Gold enquires softly, and Belle knows what he's asking.

"You've always been a legend," she breathes. "A living tale to terrorise the kids with. Fear always comes with fascination, Rum, and I've always loved a puzzle." Belle looks up at him thoughtfully. "I suppose I'll be part of that tale now, not that I mind."

He runs a tentative hand through her hair. "Fascination?"

"I like layers, so I can unwrap them." Belle grins. "You have layers, and it doesn't hurt that what lies beneath them all is so...perfect. Intelligent, wicked, _and_ caring, beneath everything? Don't think I'm in love with your legend rather than _you_, Rum."

She realises she's said it, that it's too soon, but there's no way of reeling the words back in so she just lets them hang there, floating and teasing, between them.

Gold looks at her for a moment, expression unreadable, before he steals a toe-curling kiss, taking her breath and leaving her with a thundering heartbeat after far too short a time of his lips pressed to hers.

"Remember," he mutters against her lips. "You caved first."

She punches his shoulder and he throws his head back and laughs.


	11. The Shrine, An Argument

_**The Birds They Put In Cages**_

– _**Chapter 11 –**_

* * *

'_I went down among the dust and pollen,_

_To the old stone fountain in the morning after dawn,_

_Underneath were all these pennies,_

_fallen from the hands of children,_

_They were there and then they were gone...'_

–_Fleet Foxes_

* * *

A few nights sleeping in their own separate beds and Belle is so restless that she can barely stand her own company for five minutes.

She and Gold keep a low profile, seeing each other no more than a victor and her mentor might keep each other's company, but when they are behind closed doors there is no force that can keep them apart.

Belle's intent on christening every room – especially in the wake of her newfound appetite for Gold – and they've only just begun to check off her list. But apart from her soon-to-be-husband, she longs for Red's company. She hasn't come, and Belle hasn't had time to seek her out.

But today is different.

Today there are no cameras, no cars, and it seems like a week is long enough for everything to start winding down from the Games, before the Tour. Belle knows that it builds the tension in the Capitol, having little in the way of updates regarding the Victor, and so the citizens are rabid when the Tour rolls around.

Today, Belle can walk out of the little close of houses in which she now lives, down the paved road, and into town to find her friend.

So she takes special care to have a bath and wash her hair, enjoying the facilities with which she has been gifted, and to dry her hair until it curls, before braiding it and dressing as she would on a normal day in the district. Although she hasn't had time to collect her things from home, so she has to make do with the wardrobe given to her.

Belle doesn't tell Gold where she's going – she'll be seeing him later, as arranged, for food and conversation and sweet nothings – but simply takes off in her pale blouse and knee-length skirt.

She notices the slow transition from lush comfort to gritty industry within moments of heading down the secluded and tree-covered way. There isn't much in the way of flora in the district, and it grows scarce along the lane as it opens up into the outskirts of town.

It's early enough in the morning that there are few people milling about the crowded houses that line the way into the heart of the district, but late enough that people are beginning to leave their homes and families for work and their jobs in the factories to the west of town.

Belle wants to say that the people she's grown up with going about their business continue to do so, but they do not. An elderly woman sitting on her doorstep spits at Belle's feet as she walks by, and Belle knows that this is just the beginning.

Some people stop and stare as she walks into town, toward Granny's, and some people openly speak out now there are no cameras, no rules to follow regarding appropriate behaviour of the winning district.

Mothers usher their pointing children away, and familiar faces offer not one word to Belle as she looks them in the eye, debating on stopping to talk to them as she used to, before they turn their backs to her.

She tries to regulate her footsteps, to not show her embarrassment or her upset, but she starts to walk faster, avoiding people's eyes, and she wonders if this wasn't such a good idea, to do this so soon and without Gold.

He is her rock. She shouldn't have left him at home. It's too late to turn back, even if her pride would allow it.

Eventually, the narrow, dusty streets open up a little more into the hive she knows the centre of the district to be, and here there are even more people to stop and stare at her, or avoid her altogether.

Some of the older, more weathered faces look at her without malice, just pity, but they still move out of her way like she has a disease. The younger kids – ones she's seen growing up or at school before she left – look at her with fear and awe.

Fear always comes with fascination – that's what she had told Gold, and it's true. Looking at the children, with their obvious hesitancy to come near her but their inability to look away, she knows they will think of her the same way she had thought of Gold.

She'll be the district's new monster.

Belle turns her face away, wishing she'd put her hair down so she could hide behind it now, and continues on past the second-hand clothes shops, into the square. The grey cobbles are clean, and Peacekeepers are still dotted about the place from the coverage of the Games, more of them than usual. But if Belle had thought she could lose herself in the usual milling of people and their chattering, she is to be mistaken.

The quietness and interest follows her, spreading through the crowd, and it feels like ten-thousand eyes are on her, the insurmountable weight of them bearing down.

She keeps her gaze on the washed cobbles and takes the long route across the square, avoiding mingling with the people so openly watching her every move, like she might attack any second.

She dodges a few oblivious people that are still continuing about their business in the little shops lining the square, and makes her way down the alley on her left, where the entrance is marked by two awkwardly-angled shop fronts, each boasting the best broth for the cheapest price.

There are no people down this way, entering or exiting the little crooked doorways lining the dirtied path, but Belle can feel the people behind still looking at her retreating figure.

Granny's trading shop is the third pale-brick doorway on the right – a small wooden sign painted by Red nailed to the battered door – and Belle notices a few people passing by the end of the way up ahead stop and stare as she pauses. She ignores them, darting inside.

For a moment, it's like she can breathe a little easier. The familiar scent of Granny's cooking from upstairs fills her head – she's made a stew, Belle can smell it – along with the mustiness that comes with the array of things Granny trades for. There are books, thread, and clothes – pretty much anything that has a bit of value – and then there are the more expensive and prettier things that people have traded for what they actually _need_.

The speciality items sit in a little glass case. The things are few in number, but most of them are shiny in some way. There's a small silver mirror, and a hand-painted tea set that has always caught Belle's eye, being a little damaged but still beautiful.

But the memories fade and in their place a new feeling forms – a feeling of unwelcome, stemming from Granny's cold blue stare across the small and battered counter she's just appeared behind.

The woman has always had a no-nonsense attitude, especially since Red's mother and father died in a past sickness and she took on her only grandchild, but she now seems positively frigid in her reception.

Belle had expected a little hesitancy, maybe even to be shunned, but not this cold indifference, like they're strangers.

Hope plummets inside of her, and Belle's eyes fall to the warped floorboards, looking anywhere else but into Granny's gaze.

"Is Red here?" She manages to ask, her words a little cracked.

"No."

Belle knows it's a lie, and from some secret place she summons the courage to look the grey-haired woman in the eye. Granny doesn't move except to tighten her ragged shawl about her shoulders a little, her head tilted so she can peer at Belle over her half-moon spectacles.

Before Belle can release the anger building inside of her, the door behind Granny opens.

"Hey, Granny, I'm–"

Red's words die on her tongue as she looks up from closing the door behind her to catch sight of Belle. If Granny wants to hold Red back, she is to be thwarted.

Red practically flies at Belle, circling the counter and throwing her arms about Belle's neck, escaping Granny's outstretched hand. There, in Red's embrace, Belle finally feels like it is the district that has changed, not her.

"I prayed for you, Clara."

Her friend's murmur turns Belle's hug into a grasping, clawing thing, and it's like Red's comfort is a balm to her very soul. It's all Belle needs: to know that she has Red and Gold there for her.

"Thank you," Belle whispers.

Red pulls back, blue eyes fixed on Belle's. "You were so brave, and you _did it_. Told you so."

Belle cracks a watery smile. "You did."

"I've got so much to _tell _you," Red sighs, taking Belle's hand and pulling her around the counter, heading towards the door.

Granny blocks their path, and it is a sudden showdown between the last two surviving Lucas women.

"She's not going upstairs," Granny states firmly, hand pressed to the frame of the door and arm barring the way. "I won't have it."

Red's determination is a force to be reckoned with, Belle knows, but the widow has never been afraid of her granddaughter. They're both so wilful, and Belle has always wondered how they ever get anything done.

"Yes, she is," Red argues fiercely. "She's always welcome here."

Granny does not move. "Not now, she isn't."

Belle takes a step back, tugging on Red's wrist. "Come on. It's fine."

"No. It's not." Red doesn't look back at her, just stares down Granny. "You're my best friend, Clara, no matter what."

"I can't have her here anymore," Granny cuts in. "I know you'll see each other somehow, no matter what I say or do, but I'll not have her under _my_ roof."

Granny has drawn a line in the dirt, and Red looks ready to dance all over it. Although Belle is hurt, she's tired too and she doesn't need this struggle. Not now.

"Let's go," Belle urges, taking a few steps back. "Come on."

"Fine. But this is not over," Red promises, and Granny watches them leave the shop, still barring the way upstairs.

Red curses her grandmother the whole walk to the Victors' Village, and every person who crosses their path, staring at and whispering about Belle.

"It's like they've all gone crazy," the girl half-growls as they take the lane to Belle's new house. "Like they've forgotten who you are."

Belle gives her a half-smile and links their arms. "I've killed people, Red."

The other girl just looks at her like she's crazy too. "Yeah. In the _arena_. It's different."

Belle doesn't bother explaining how she thinks of her new situation, because Red will think what she thinks and Belle likes that about her. She can always count on Red to be true to herself and constant.

Belle lets them into the house, after Red has finished admiring it, and gives her a short tour. Red sits in the soft armchair when they're done, looking like touching a single thing in the house will smash it to smithereens.

"Wow."

"Mm." Belle smiles. "I know."

"And they just gave you all this?"

Belle nods, settling in the opposite chair to Red's in front of the cold fireplace. The other girl gives the place another long glance, before sitting back in the chair with more purpose.

"I need to tell you some things," Red begins, and Belle nods, her fingertips curling in the end of the arms of the chair.

"Go on."

Red pushes her curtain of dark hair over her shoulder and combs it through with her fingers. Belle knows that the news will not be kind from this single, near-nervous, gesture.

"Gaston's marrying Violet." Red glances up, gauging Belle's reaction. "You know, Wick's daughter. She's the blonde girl who used to sing at school."

Belle remembers a thin, little thing with a pretty voice, and she wonders how Gaston caught her interest. Or perhaps Wick the butcher had arranged it, the same as Belle's father.

But Belle knows this is not the news Red wants to convey, because she knows how Belle feels about Gaston and how their engagement had come about, and this news, Belle thinks, is trying to soften the rest Red has to tell.

"Well." Red straightens her dark pants and shirt, before continuing in her brushing of her hair. "Your father told Gaston to find someone else, because you were never coming back. And he...he sold your things, Clara. I'm sorry."

Belle sits back in the chair, numb. "My things?"

She thinks of her miniscule hoard of her mother's treasures, her favourite dress and her pretty little hair-things, her books and her collection of pencils, and then she thinks of them in a box, or a bag, being sold by her father to a stranger for as much as he can get for all her worldly possessions.

"He..." Red reaches out, abandoning her hair, and grasps Belle's knee. "When we had to watch the Games, he watched it with me and Granny, and...when you won... Clara, I've never seen him look so _angry_. He...he said that..."

"Tell me," Belle urges her, when Red doesn't continue.

"He said...it's better to have no daughter than a victor."

Belle's so consumed by her rage and her pain that she doesn't notice Gold's sudden appearance in the doorway of the room until Red makes it obvious, standing and practically protecting her.

"What are you doing here?"

Belle tugs on Red's hand and near-croaks, "Red, it's fine. Please, sit down."

Gold's back is clearly up from Red's unexpected presence, and though his expression is carefully blank, his eyes worry over Belle's rigid form. She knows he's heard what Red has said about her father.

Red's eyes dart from Belle to Gold as she takes her seat up once more, but she says nothing else. Her eyes ask for explanation enough.

For a moment, Belle considers hiding it all, lying through her teeth and reeling off some crap about how Gold is a good mentor and looks after her. But that won't repay Red's loyalty any more than it will assuage Belle's.

With a weak smile in his direction, Gold comes to stand at Belle's side, cane gripped tightly in his right hand as his left squeezes the back of Belle's chair. She knows he wants to be touching her.

Red crosses her arms over her chest, and Belle knows she needs to start talking.

She takes a deep breath and begins. "I did what I had to do to get sponsors."

"Yeah." Red nods, eyes on Belle. "You never were one to flirt and throw yourself about. I knew that was an act as soon as I saw it."

Belle allows herself a small smile, before continuing. "Gold helped me, and along the way...I..." She rubs the side of her thumb against the almost rough upholstery of the chair in thought. "I found something I never really thought to look for."

Gold's hand slides from the back of the chair to her shoulder, slipping over her shoulder blade and down her back. Belle feels so reassured with such a simple touch, and it gives her the courage to look Red right in the eye.

Her friend has an eyebrow cocked as if she's in half a mind about the whole thing, like she's simultaneously annoyed and protective but also..._understanding_.

Red smiles at Belle's obvious surprise. "You've always been an odd one, Clara, and I don't begrudge you any happiness." Her eyes flick to Gold. "No matter who it's with. I'm just so fucking relieved you came back at all, and now that you have, and you're not...you know...well, I'm just so glad."

Belle reaches out and Red takes her hand, giving it a squeeze. Belle wants to tell her that it's a close call being '_you know_' – _crazy_ – and that it's tough to hold on some nights, but it can wait. She certainly hasn't had it the worst, like some of the other tributes and victors, ones that weren't spared a drawn-out Games or being passed around the Capitol like a living doll, and she can tell Red those stories another time.

Gold finally speaks. "I hear you're the person to ask for a blessing."

Red looks to Belle, and then back to Gold, her features softening a little. "That's right. Thinking of tying the knot then?"

She means it as a joke, but it falls flat in the face of Gold's obvious sincerity. Red's eyes widen and she looks to Belle.

"Seriously?"

Belle nods, unashamed, and Red seems to take a minute to think it all through. Belle could tell her the ins and outs of the entire affair, the love between her and Gold that marriage will protect instead of stifle, but it's unnecessary. She knows Red likes to deal with the big issue rather than the working parts.

After a few moments of silence, the girl sighs and attempts a smile.

"I always thought I'd be the first to settle down," she says. "Shame."

Belle can't help her wide grin. "Thank you."

Red nods and waves her off, before looking back to Gold and giving him a no-nonsense stare that Belle's sure is a Lucas family trait.

"So," Red begins. "You want to marry my best friend."

Belle looks up to see Gold give a slow nod, the corner of his mouth curling upwards almost invisibly.

Red gives an almost-grunt. "Well, you better look after her."

"I will," Gold vows, his thumb drawing a soft and soothing circle on Belle's back.

"She's too good for anyone in this district, probably all of Panem," Red announces, cutting off Belle as she makes to interrupt. "It's true! He should hear this." Her eyes return to Gold. "She's brilliant and smart, and if you discourage her reading, I will _end you_. She's mad for a lost cause, and you better keep an eye on how much salt she has, because she's weak for it."

Belle feels her cheeks flush hotly, even as she laughs against the back of her hand, but Red isn't done.

"She'll probably attempt to bring back strays of all sorts, and you better let her, because she'll just do it anyway to show you." Red takes a long breath, before adding almost gruffly, "And don't let the idiots in town anywhere near her, or you'll have me to answer to."

There's a beat of silence, and Belle looks up to see Gold's sly smile.

"Not_ too_ tall an order then," he drawls.

For a moment, it seems as if Gold and Red are sizing each other up, and then the moment's gone and Red turns to Belle and gives her a short nod. Her blessing.

Belle throws herself into the other girl's arms, murmuring gratefully, "_Thank you_."

Red squeezes her back. "Don't worry about it. I know you'll do the same for me."

Belle pulls back, her heart ten-times lighter and her smile twenty-times brighter. She gives her a playful look.

"I'll even come along with an axe, if that will help," she tells her, and Red laughs and gathers her up in her arms, like she's never been so relieved to hear a poorly-told joke in all her life.

"I love you," Red whispers against her shoulder, sounding so small and quiet, just for Belle's ears.

Belle strokes her back, smiling and sighing. "Me, too, Red."

* * *

Red leaves as the sun begins to sink, but promises Belle that she'll return within the next couple of days. Gold is there for Belle once the door shuts on the disappearing figure of her friend.

His arms come about her waist and she tucks her face against his chest. He drops a kiss into her hair.

"Alright, love?"

Belle nods.

They just stand there for a moment, silent and breathing, enjoying the peace and quiet and the knowledge that there is one person who doesn't fear or loathe them and is, in actual fact, _rooting_ for them.

"I came over earlier," Gold murmurs. "But you weren't here."

"I went to find Red," she explains, glancing up. "I found out what everyone thinks of me, too."

He watches her for a moment, his fingertips stroking her jaw. "I heard what she said about your father."

Belle's fingers clench in the folds of Gold's black suit jacket, and she thinks she just might tear the fabric, her chest aches so intensely.

"Maybe he'll come around," Gold offers soothingly, fingers running over her braid.

"I don't want him to."

The admission is harsh and heavy, laden with anger and pain and, above all, _betrayal_. Belle can feel it churning inside of her, the sharp and radiating pain of being given up on by her last, surviving _parent_.

"He gave up on me," she grits out, eyes misting, tears forming. "I can't believe he gave up on me."

Gold catches her when she falls, bringing them both to their knees and holding her close. And she cries.


	12. Two Fingers

_**The Birds They Put In Cages**_

– _**Chapter 12 –**_

* * *

'_I got out, I got out,_

_I'm alive, and I'm here to stay...'_

–_Jake Bugg_

* * *

**Author's note**: Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. I couldn't have continued without your support. I _have_ written a short sequel – an O/s – from Gold's POV, so look out for that shortly if you're interested. There is, hopefully, more Rumbelle AU-ness to come, because I have so many ideas. Again, thank you!

* * *

Belle sits in front of the fire, cross-legged on the swept floor, as she darns the damage to her favourite, pale green dress – recovered by Red in Hefty's second-hand clothes shop from her father's trading – and Gold's soft, worn nightshirt.

It's been nearly eight months since she first arrived back in District 8 from the Games, and she has only just returned home from the Victory Tour, six days ago.

It had been arduous, seeing the other districts for the first time and finding most of Panem's citizens as poor and starved as Eight's. All except the Career districts, of course. They weren't happy to see her. No one was.

She's the Bloody Rose of the Wastelands, and only the Capitol has interest in her.

Belle continues with her sewing, thinking of the feasts she dined at and the officials she met, and just thanks her lucky stars that the Victor's team is required to attend the Tour as well.

Seeing Saph again had been difficult, and Russell and Cherry and Bowlby had all been sugar-sweet and overly fawning, but, of course, Belle had had Gold by her side. It had been so much easier handling the cameras and the smiles with him by her side, just there, should she need him.

It works both ways, of course, which Belle is more than happy about. Should Gold need reassurance, she's there, waiting, with a smile.

Belle glances up, turning to look out of the window and watch the sky darkening to almost-black. A smile flits across her lips, knowing as she does that he'll be here soon.

She returns to her dress, snipping the pale thread and beginning on the hole in the hem of Gold's nightshirt. She thinks she might have put it there herself in her haste to have his shirt off of him one night.

She absently wonders about Ruby and her courtship with a man Belle doesn't know the name of yet, though she think it might be Hopper, the baker's son, because she's seen him drifting near Granny's more than once with a mooning smile on his sweet-featured face.

As the firewood cracks and pops in the grate before her, Belle thinks of her father. She had seen him the other day, when she had returned, being interviewed by one of the cameramen from the Capitol.

She has a television in the house, but she hadn't bothered watching the coverage of the Tour, or trying to find her father's interview. She doesn't want to know. Though the pain's lessened, it's still there, burning in a place that feels very much like her heart.

Belle slips a stitch in her distraction and glances at the kink in the neat row. She knows Gold won't mind. Even though they have a little money stored away now, along with a couple of favours from their time in the Capitol, they're still frugal. Belle smiles, knowing it will always be this way.

A key being turned in the lock of the front door sounds softly, and Belle continues with her stitching, unable to remove her smile.

Footsteps. The soft and steady _thump-thump-thump_ of his cane. A sigh.

After a few moments, she breaks the silence. "Are you watching me again?"

Belle glances over her shoulder to see Gold leaning against the door frame into the living room, a soft look in his eyes as if he can't believe his luck. He's come to look at her this way often, and has chosen to stare at her sometimes when he thinks she's not looking.

She'll never tell him she likes it.

"No," he answers, though she can hear his smile in his voice even as she returns her attention to the sewing.

He sidles up beside her as she finishes, cutting the thread once more before piling the fixed clothes and her sewing things on one of the armchairs. Gold awkwardly takes a seat next to her on the floor, stretching his bad leg out towards the fire and leaning his cane against the fireplace.

Belle curls into his outstretched arm, smiling, and holds up her middle and index fingers in front of Gold's face. Pinched between her fingertips is a single, shining needle, glinting in the warm firelight.

He doesn't ask her whether she's sure, or whether she's ready, merely grins and takes it from her with careful and dexterous fingers. He beckons her closer and takes her hand when she offers it.

With the tiniest movement and the biggest smile, he gently pricks her left middle finger.

She feels no pain, only overwhelming joy. Blood blooms on the pierced fingertip, dark and beading. Belle takes the needle from Gold with a blush, and gently grips his outstretched right hand at the wrist to will his dancing fingers still.

A tiny prick with the needle and his blood breaks the surface of his skin in a small, dark dot at the tip of his middle finger. And then, according to the customs of their district, they press their hands together, fingertip meeting fingertip, with ridiculously pleased smiles on both of their faces.

His left hand comes up to cup her cheek. Belle returns the favour, a laugh catching in her chest, and leans in to brush her lips against his. Their other hands entwine in her lap.

Belle's heart is light, _free_, because, finally, they are married. After waiting for so long, the simple ceremony of District 8 leaves her breathless and weightless, floating.

Gold leans in, catching her lips, his happiness not diminished one inch, merely overridden by his obvious desire. He kisses her, his tongue seeking out hers, all softness and warmth and hot desire as he urges her back, onto the floor.

Belle wriggles against the hard wood, before tugging at the small rug between the two armchairs and pulling it up to the fire, rolling onto it and crooking her finger for her _husband_ to join her.

No words are needed.

There are only sighs and kisses, the crackle of the fire, and lingering touches and the soft shushing noises of clothing being removed by each other's hands. Gold makes Belle arch for him, slipping her blouse over her head and taking one unprotected nipple between his lips.

Her gasp draws out a moan from his own throat, gentle and desperate, his fingers climbing her naked thigh as he shakes off the remaining sleeve of his shirt.

When they lay skin-to-skin, finally, Gold turns, taking Belle with him until they lie against the hearth, half-off of the rug, and she is sprawled across his body. They shift a little together, making Gold arch beneath her with hooded eyes and parted lips, and then they each find their place, his cock sliding smoothly against her slick lips.

He gasps and stills beneath her, one hand splayed across her belly while the other dithers at her thigh, and he watches intently as Belle rocks back, so practised now, to take him inside of her.

The first feel of him – his cock filling her, pushing into her – is the greatest high, the longest and purest sensation of flesh against flesh, so delicious and excruciating.

Her breath leaves her as her hips roll and Gold's meet them, still so exciting and precious, even after all the late nights and heat between the sheets of both of their beds.

The firelight lends him something, she thinks, as she looks down at him while she gently lifts and drops her hips, rolling and rolling and _grinding_. The glow makes him look darkly ethereal.

"_Ah_, Belle!"

He's the first to cave, the first to break the thick and heated silence between their moving bodies, but she doesn't have the time to feel smug or victorious. Not tonight. Tonight, they are married, and she has no patience for any of their little games. She just wants him, as fiercely as ever, and all to herself.

So she kisses him with passion, with whispered nonsense and muffled cries, and takes them both somewhere higher. His hands betray his need, shaking against her back, but he gives her his all, kissing and cursing and fighting for her pleasure.

She loves him so much.

She buries a hand in his hair, so much shorter than before now he's cut it a little, and the damp half-curls tickle her palm as he pants and writhes, eyes dark and half-lidded. He looks so much younger with shorter hair, especially now he smiles more and laughs more, but, of course, these things are for only her.

Only she can see him so undone, crying out for his release but holding on for hers, and it heats her more than the fire could ever do. His desperate lovemaking spurs her on, making her meet his thrusts with her own until all she can see is him. And stars. Bursting behind her eyelids.

When she falls, he catches her. Even though he's crashing through his own bliss and riding out his own aftershocks, he will always catch her.

Belle pants against Gold's damp neck, murmuring the most heartfelt sentiment she can give him at such a tender and vulnerable moment.

He returns it, so breathily it melts her heart. "I love you, too, Fireweed."

Belle dozes, warm and happy and sated. But before sleep can claim her, as it has the deeply-breathing man beneath her, clutching at her even in his dreams, she scrutinises her fingertip, holding it up to the light.

A tiny dark smear graces her skin, the pinprick already healing, and she treasures the sight, curling in closer to Gold, relishing the sleepy smile that graces his soft mouth.

The few lines he has on his face vanish in sleep, and she thinks him truly beautiful. Not a victor, nor any of the names given to him by the district, but just Rum. Soft, and dark, and sweet, and wicked.

She falls into a deep, undisturbed sleep.

* * *

_**Finis**_


End file.
